Quotes About Time

There's time enough for that.

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.

When in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rime,In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have express'dEven such a beauty as you master now.

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?

Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?

The time is out of joint; O cursed spite,That ever I was born to set it right!

How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

Answer me in one word.

There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.

Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,When love, converted from the thing it was,Shall reasons find of settled gravity.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste.

You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time's flies.

And then he drew a dial from his poke,And, looking on it with lack-luster eye,Says very wisely, "It is ten o'clock;Thus may we see," quoth he, "how the world wags."

Before thy hour be ripe.

By and by is easily said.

There's no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away...

This weak piping time of peace.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field.

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.