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.

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.

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

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.