The celestial machine is to be likened not to a divine organism but rather to a clockwork.

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.

My stern chase after time is, to borrow a simile from Tom Paine, like the race of a man with a wooden leg after a horse.

They say, “We only have the life of this world. We die and we live, and nothing destroys us but time.” Yet, not true knowledge have they of this—only belief.

We should not say that one man’s hour is worth another man’s hour, but rather that one man during an hour is worth just as much as another man during an hour. Time is everything, man is nothing; he is, at most, time’s carcass.

A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity.

Time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters, but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

Time is a veil interposed between God and ourselves, as our eyelid is between our eye and the light.