Ah, there are no children nowadays.

Youth, youth, springtime of beauty.

I was born at a very early age. Before I had time to regret it, I was four and a half years old.

Most men employ the first years of their life in making the last miserable.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy’s life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.

I’ve never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It’s probably because they have forgotten their own.

Even members of the nobility, let alone persons of no consequence, would do well not to have children. 

Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the national debt.

The distinction between children and adults, while probably useful for some purposes, is at bottom a specious one, I feel. There are only individual egos, crazy for love.

Childhood knows what it wants—to leave childhood behind.

No time to marry, no time to settle down, I’m a young woman, and ain’t done runnin’ round.

Bright youth passes as quickly as thought.