John Armstrong Quotes
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Imagination paints a charming view of the future, conveniently adapted to the demands of our current emotion.
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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.
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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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Autumn ripens in the summer's ray.
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You don't ask a juggler which ball is highest in priority. Success is to do it all.
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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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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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For want of timely care Millions have died of medicable wounds.
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Tis chiefly taste, or blunt, or gross, or fine, Makes life insipid, bestial, or divine. Better be born with taste to little rent Than the dull monarch of a continent; Without this bounty which the gods bestow, Can Fortune make one favorite happy? No.
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This restless world Is full of chances, which by habit's power To learn to bear is easier than to shun.
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We need to be free if we are to love.
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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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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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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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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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There is, they say, (and I believe there is), A spark within us of th' immortal fire, That animates and moulds the grosser frame; And when the body sinks, escapes to heaven; Its native seat, and mixes with the gods.
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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.
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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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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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The athletic fool, to whom what heaven denied of soul, is well compensated in limbs.
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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.
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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.
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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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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.
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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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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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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
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For wisest ends this universal Power Gave appetites, from whose quick impulse life Subsists, by which we only live, all life Insipid else, unactive, unenjoy'd. Hence to this peopled earth, which, that extinct, That flame for propagation, soon would roll A lifeless mass, and vainly cumber heaven.
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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.
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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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