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… — John Armstrong Copy Share Image
Toil, and be strong; by toil the flaccid nerves Grow firm, and gain a more compacted tone: The greener juices are by toil subdued, Mellow'd, and subtilis'd; the vapid old Expell'd, and all the rancor of the blood. — 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
