The noiseless foot of time steals by, and ere we dream of manhood, age is nigh.
LIttle fly, your life is but a summer, mine is no more, though repeated to three score. Three score summers when they are gone, will appear as short as one.
People who perish suddenly escape the horrow of noticing themselves wear out gradually.
It is a bore to be past seventy, for you are then left for almost immediate execution.
Old age itself is a disease, and one from which there is no recovery.
Age makes many a man white, but not better.
No one need regret old age, if he has left his work well done behind him.
I shall grow old but never lose life's zest, because the road's last turning will be the best.