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.

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them.

The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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

Time is a veil interposed between God and ourselves, as our eyelid is between our eye and the light.

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

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

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

Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity.

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.

They say, “We only have the life of this world. We die and we live, and nothing destroys us but time.” Yet, not true knowledge have they of this—only belief.