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.

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.

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

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