I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

I was born at a very early age. Before I had time to regret it, I was four and a half years old.

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

Ah, there are no children nowadays.

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

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

The distinction between children and adults, while probably useful for some purposes, is at bottom a specious one, I feel. There are only individual egos, crazy for love.

No time to marry, no time to settle down, I’m a young woman, and ain’t done runnin’ round.

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

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

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

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

Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.