The moral lessons of our youth are like our old love letters,—carefully preserved, but never read.
Time wears out masks; the old show what they are.
The mellowest fruits of life should ripen in its autumn; but if the spring had not its seeding, and the summer its flowers, what harvest can we look for?
Many a man passes his youth in preparing misery for his age, and his age in repairing misconduct in his youth.
The old story says that the flowers you gather in Fairyland prove to be withered weeds on your return.