A Quote by Joanna Baillie

Tis ever thus: indulgence spoils the base; Raising up pride, and lawless turbulence, Like noxious vapors from the fulsome marsh When morning shines upon it.
Newspapers . . . serve as chimnies to carry off noxious vapors and smoke.
Pride may be allowed to this or that degree, else a man cannot keep up dignity. In gluttony there must be eating, in drunkenness there must be drinking; 'tis not the eating, and 'tis not the drinking that must be blamed, but the excess. So in pride.
Truth like a torch, the more 'tis shock, it shines.
I hate to see prudence clinging to the green suckers of youth; 'tis like ivy round a sapling, and spoils the growth of the tree.
Where we desire to be informed 'tis good to contest with men above ourselves; but to confirm and establish our opinions, 'tis best to argue with judgments below our own, that the frequent spoils and victories over their reasons may settle in ourselves an esteem and confirmed opinion of our own.
When you wake up each morning, you can choose to be happy or choose to be sad. Unless some terrible catastrophe has occurred the night before, it is pretty much up to you. Tomorrow morning, when the sun shines through your window, choose to make it a happy day.
Tis the gift to be gentle, ’tis the gift to be fair, ’Tis the gift to wake and breathe the morning air, To walk every day in the path that we choose, Is the gift that we pray we will never never lose.
I don't feel like it's a time to be shy about raising my voice, and I don't think that the things I'm raising my voice about should be alienating. If it's alienating to a "fan base," then I'm not responsible for that.
Tis well to borrow from the good and the great; 'Tis wise to learn: 'tis God-like to create!
Luxury is the enemy of observation, a costly indulgence that induces such a good feeling that you notice nothing. Luxury spoils and infantilizes you and prevents you from knowing the world.
As pride sometimes is hid under humility, idleness if often covered by turbulence and hurry.
No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam? At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me. Ho! hillyho! heigh O! Hillyho! In the clear October morning.
Tis light translateth night; 'tis inspiration Expounds experience; 'tis the west explains The east; 'tis time unfolds Eternity.
Please not thyself the flattering crowd to hear; 'Tis fulsome stuff, to please thy itching ear. Survey thy soul, not what thou does appear, But what thou art.
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies, In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies.
Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.
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