Time (n.) is to be used wisely — when well husbanded, it is like a cultivated field, of which a few acres produce more of what is useful to life, than extensive provinces, even of the richest soil, when overrun with weeds and brambles.
Time (n.) well husbanded is a cultivated field: a few acres yield more than whole provinces overrun with weeds and brambles.
Time (n.) alone bestows right and authority on what was at first founded on force and violence.
Time (n.) has this for its very essence: no two of its parts can coexist — the year 1737 cannot concur with 1738.
Time (n.) is not a sixth impression beside five notes on a flute but the manner in which the five appear — succession, never felt alone.
Time (n.) vanishes for a man in sound sleep or lost in one thought; the same duration stretches or shrinks with the speed of his perceptions.
Time (n.) distances us more than space: the West-Indian merchant worries about Jamaica, but few extend their dread twenty years into the future.
Time (n.) never presents more than one of its parts at once — each must enter the fancy alone, banishing the one before it, which is why a distance in time breaks the thought more than an equal distance in space.
Time (n.) produces property, yet nothing real is produced by time — so property is nothing real in objects, but the offspring of sentiments.
Time (n.) is measured by scale: a man thinks he owns a horse or a coat after a short while, but a century barely establishes a new government.
Time (n.) made of an infinite number of real parts, passing and exhausted one after another, is so evident a contradiction that only a judgment corrupted by the sciences could admit it.