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

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

Years are nothing to me—they should be nothing to you. Who asked you to count them or to consider them? In the world of wild nature, time is measured by seasons only—the bird does not know how old it is—the rose tree does not count its birthdays!

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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.

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

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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

I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.