A death-bed's a detector of the heart.

Time elaborately thrown away.

Procrastination is the thief of time; year after year it steals, till all are fled, and to the mercies of a moment leaves the vast concerns of an eternal state. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; at fifty chides his infamous delay, pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; in all the magnanimity of thought, resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

By all means use some time to be alone.

They build too low who build beneath the skies.

Born Originals, how comes it to pass that we die Copies?