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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

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John Armstrong
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More quotes by John Armstrong

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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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Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene supports the mind supports the body too.
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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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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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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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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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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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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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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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Autumn ripens in the summer's ray.
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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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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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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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There are, while human miseries abound, A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth, Without one fool or flatterer at your board, Without one hour of sickness or disgust.
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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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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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If from thy secret bed Of luxury unbidden offspring rise, Let them be kindly welcom'd to the day.
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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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