John Armstrong may refer to:
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.
When you're doing wrong, you're gonna think wrong.
Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd; Or dealt by chance to shield a lucky knave, Or throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. But for one end, one much-neglected use, Are riches worth your care; (for nature's wants Are few, and without opulence supplied;) This noble end is, to produce the soul; To show the virtues in their fairest light; To make humanity the minister Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breast The generous luxury the gods enjoy.
For pale and trembling anger rushes in With faltering speech, and eyes that wildly stare, Fierce as the tiger, madder than the seas, Desperate and armed with more than human strength.
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.
What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
Money can purchase the symbols but not the causes of serenity and buoyancy. In a straightforward way we must agree that money cannot buy happiness.
For want of timely care Millions have died of medicable wounds.
Sometimes pantheists will use the term "pandeism" to underscore that they share with the deists the idea that God is not a personal God who desires to be worshipped.
Virtue and sense are one; and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
When the tribal groups of december trade Seated in the figure of crocodile And songs are sung and deals discussed, are made Real. All. . . For more than one reason they smile. These codes are writ in secret, feeling fine To keep what's private to my self since we All must face our maker in our own ryhme And reasons for being ( from regrets) free So let the memory of your glory Be the tenderness heartfelt love starkly In the sky of my mind vast and pretty Evermore glittering simplicity Where in the truth of country grows sober And sunshines through fog to radiate wonder
You don't ask a juggler which ball is highest in priority. Success is to do it all.
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.
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.
The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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!
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 of the world. We feel her power; we strive not to repress (Vainly repress'd, or to deformity) Her lawful growth: ours be the task alone To check her rude excrescencies, to prune Her wanton overgrowth, and where she strays In uncouth shapes, to lead her gently back, With prudent hand, to form and better use.
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.
He knows enough, the mariner, who knows Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools boil, What signs portend the storm: to subtler minds He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause Charybdis rages in the Ionian wave; Whence those impetuous currents in the main Which neither oar nor sail can stem; and why The roughening deep expects the storm, as sure As red Orion mounts the shrouded heaven.