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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
Trust
Virtue
Head
Sense
Stills
Unsound
Still
Faithless
Heart
Betrays
Betray

More quotes by John Armstrong

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Ye youths and virgins, when your generous blood Has drunk the warmth of fifteen summers, now The loves invite now to new rapture wakes The finish'd sense: while stung with keen desire The madd'ning boy his bashful fetters bursts And, urg'd with secret flames, the riper maid, Conscious and shy, betrays her smarting breast.
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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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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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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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The blood, the fountain whence the spirits flow The generous stream that waters every part, And motion, vigor, and warm life conveys To every particle that moves or lives.
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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.
John Armstrong
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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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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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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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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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Autumn ripens in the summer's ray.
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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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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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If from thy secret bed Of luxury unbidden offspring rise, Let them be kindly welcom'd to the day.
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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.
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Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness That even above the smiles and frowns of fate Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd.
John Armstrong