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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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John Armstrong
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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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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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Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene supports the mind supports the body too.
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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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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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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.
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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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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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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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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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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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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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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
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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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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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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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