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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
Betray
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Virtue
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Still
Faithless
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Betrays

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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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Much had he read, Much more had he seen he studied from the life, And in th' original perus'd mankind.
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How happy he whose toil Has o'er his languid pow'rless limbs diffus'd A pleasing lassitude he not in vain Invokes the gentle Deity of dreams. His pow'rs the most voluptuously dissolve In soft repose on him the balmy dews Of Sleep with double nutriment descend.
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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.
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For wisest ends this universal Power Gave appetites, from whose quick impulse life Subsists, by which we only live, all life Insipid else, unactive, unenjoy'd. Hence to this peopled earth, which, that extinct, That flame for propagation, soon would roll A lifeless mass, and vainly cumber heaven.
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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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If from thy secret bed Of luxury unbidden offspring rise, Let them be kindly welcom'd to the day.
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Then love of pleasure sways each heart, and we From that no more than from ourselves can fly. Blameless when govern'd well. But where it errs Extravagant, and wildly leads to ill, Public or private, there its curbing pow'r Cool reason must exert.
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To please the fancy is no trifling good, Where health is studied for whatever moves The mind with calm delight, promotes the just And natural movements of th'harmonious frame.
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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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Impious! forbear thus the first general hail. To disappoint, Increase and multiply, To shed thy blossoms thro' the desert air, And sow thy perish'd offspring in the winds.
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Ye who amid this feverish world would wear A body free of pain, of cares a mind, Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, sickening, and the living world Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome With dim mortality.
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Your friends avoid you, brutishly transform'd They hardly know you, or if one remains To wish you well, he wishes you in heaven.
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Good native Taste, tho' rude, is seldom wrong, Be it in music, painting, or in song: But this, as well as other faculties, Improves with age and ripens by degrees.
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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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How sickly grow, How pale, the plants in those ill-fated vales That, circled round with the gigantic heap Of mountains, never felt, nor ever hope To feel, the genial vigor of the sun!
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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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