We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, wherein he puts alms for oblivion.
Time be thine, and thy best graces spend it at thy will.
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.
There are many events in the womb of time, which will be delivered.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end.
Let every man be master of his time.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then to me.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.