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If from thy secret bed Of luxury unbidden offspring rise, Let them be kindly welcom'd to the day.

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
Unbidden
Kindly
Offspring
Luxury
Rise
Bed
Secret

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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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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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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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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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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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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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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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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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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.
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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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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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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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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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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
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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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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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