No wise man ever wished to be younger.

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.

The young man must store up, the old man must use.

No one’s serious at seventeen.

Childhood has no forebodings—but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.

Even members of the nobility, let alone persons of no consequence, would do well not to have children. 

Youth is the time to go flashing from one end of the world to the other both in mind and body, to try the manners of different nations, to hear the chimes at midnight.

There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.

A sick child is always the mother’s property; her own feelings generally make it so.

I’ve never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It’s probably because they have forgotten their own.

Most men employ the first years of their life in making the last miserable.

A dissolute and intemperate youth hands down the body to old age in a worn-out state.

Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the national debt.