The thing that impresses me most about America is the way parents obey their children.

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

The boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to manage. 

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

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.

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

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

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 one’s serious at seventeen.

Rejoice, young man, while you are young, and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth. Follow the inclination of your heart and the desire of your eyes, but know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment.

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

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

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.