Of all the barbarous middle ages, that which is most barbarous is the middle age of man! it is — I really scarce know what; but when we hover between fool and sage, and don’t know justly what we would be at — a period something like a printed page, black letter upon foolscap, while our hair grows grizzled, and we are not what we were.
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- What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life’s page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
- It was one of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of my life to feel that I was no longer a boy. From that moment I began to grow old in my own esteem –and in my esteem age is not estimable.
- Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates — but pages might be filled up, as vainly as before, with the sad usage of all sorts of sages, who in his life-time, each was deemed a bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages.
- A lady of a certain age, which means certainly aged.
- I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?
- I always looked to about thirty as the barrier of any real or fierce delight in the passions, and determined to work them out in the younger ore and better veins of the mine –and I flatter myself (perhaps) that I have pretty well done so –and now the dross is coming.