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! — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
Ye youths and virgins, when your generous blood Has drunk the warmth of fifteen summers, now The loves invite; now to new rapture wakes… — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
Virtue and sense are one; and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound. — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
He knows enough, the mariner, who knows Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools boil, What signs portend the storm: to subtler minds… — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
“But mostly what we think of as the 'meaning' of life concerns the style of the private autobiography we each write and which records… — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
We know great Nature's pow'r, Mother of things, whose vast unbounded sway From the deep centre all around extends Wide to the flaming barriers… — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
Much had he read, Much more had he seen; he studied from the life, And in th' original perus'd mankind. — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear. — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness That even above the smiles and frowns of… — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
