Quotes About Time

Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flownHis cloister'd flight, ere, to black Hecate's summonsThe shard-borne beetle with his drowsy humsHath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be doneA deed of dreadful note.

Fortune, good night, smile once more; turn thy wheel!

Spite of cormorant devouring Time.

Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,The hart ungalled play;For some must watch, while some must sleep:So runs the world away.

To hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.

Then, let thy love be younger than thyself,Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;For women are as roses, whose fair flowerBeing once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

The inaudible and noiseless foot of time.

Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.

Delays have dangerous ends.

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.

These most brisk and giddy-paced times.

Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-color'd taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

How many things by season season'd areTo their right praise and true perfection!

And so, from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,And then from hour to hour we rot and rot,And thereby hangs a tale.

There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.

But, alas! to make meA fixed figure for the time of scornTo point his slow and moving finger at.

This will last out a night in Russia,When nights are longest there.

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly?

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in theeCalls back the lovely April of her prime.

I must become a borrower of the nightFor a dark hour or twain.

Beauty, wit,High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service,Love, friendship, charity, are subjects allTo envious and calumniating time.One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.

They are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time: after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.