Virtue and sense are one; and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
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.
Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
When you’re doing wrong, you’re gonna think wrong.
You can’t help people that don’t want to be helped.
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.
The athletic fool, to whom what heaven denied of soul, is well compensated in limbs.
The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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.
If from thy secret bed Of luxury unbidden offspring rise, Let them be kindly welcom’d to the day.
Imagination paints a charming view of the future, conveniently adapted to the demands of our current emotion.
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.
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.
Autumn ripens in the summer’s ray.
Then love of pleasure sways each heart, and we From that no more than from ourselves can fly. Blameless when govern’d well. But where it errs Extravagant, and wildly leads to ill, Public or private, there its curbing pow’r Cool reason must exert.
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!
What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
The boy may wrestle, when Night – working Fancy steals him to the arms Of nymph oft wish’d awake, and, ’mid the rage Of the soft tumult, ev’ry turgid cell Spontaneous disembogues its lucid store, Bland and of azure tinct.
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.
We need to be free if we are to love.