Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

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!

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

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.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.