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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.

John Armstrong

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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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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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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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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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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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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
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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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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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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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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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