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.

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

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.

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.

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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.

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

 Do not lessen the time of following desire, for the wasting of time is an abomination to the spirit.

In time history must become a fairy tale—it will become again what it was in the beginning.

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.