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

Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid.

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

We wish away whole years, and travel through time as through a country filled with many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at those several little settlements or imaginary points of rest which are dispersed up and down in it.

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