A Quote by Harold Nicolson

Every schoolmaster after the age of forty-nine, is inclined to flatulence is apt to swallow frequently and to puff — © Harold Nicolson
Every schoolmaster after the age of forty-nine, is inclined to flatulence is apt to swallow frequently and to puff
Up to forty a woman has only forty springs in her heart. After that age she has only forty winters.
You’re just the romantic age,” she continued- “fifty. Twenty-five is too worldly wise; thirty is apt to be pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell; sixty is- oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is the mellow age. I love fifty.” - Hildegarde
All this to say: I am forty-three years old. I may yet live another forty. What do I do with those years? How do I fill them without Lexy? When I come to tell the story of my life, there will be a line, creased and blurred and soft with age, where she stops. If I win the lottery, if I father a child, if I lose the use of my legs, it will be after she has finished knowing me. "When I get to Heaven", my grandmother used to say, widowed at thirty-nine, "your grandfather won't even recognize me.
Me and Paul (Dean) will probably win forty games (they won forty-nine).
Giving birth to triplets at the age of forty-three is no walk in the park, but I had little choice. I got married at the young age of forty, and both my husband, Shirish, and I were keen to start a family soon.
The body is most fully developed from thirty to thirty-five years of age, the mind at about forty-nine.
Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.
Today, 9 May, exactly forty-nine months and three days after the Fascist attack on Yugoslavia, the most powerful aggressive force in Europe, Germany, has capitulated.
What do you get if you multiply six by nine?" "Six by nine. Forty two." "That's it. That's all there is." "I always thought something was fundamentally wrong with the universe
And now I am eking out my days in my corner, taunting myself with the bitter and entirely useless consolations that an intelligent man cannot seriously become anything; that only a fool can become something. Yes, sir, an intelligent nineteenth-century man must be, is morally bound to be, an essentially characterless creature; and a man of character, a man of action - an essentially limited creature. This is my conviction at the age of forty. I am forty now, and forty years - why, it is all of a lifetime, it is the deepest of old age. Living past forty is indecent, vulgar, immoral!
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff a dunce, he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to displease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
Since so many people these days don't seem to start their families until around age forty, I predict there will be less child beating, but more slipped disks from lifting babies out of cribs. Even the father of advanced age who's not inclined to spare the rod is likely to suffer more than his victim: The first punch he throws might well be the last straw for his rotator cuff, reducing his disciplinary options to mere verbal abuse and napping.
Someone has said that after age forty, each of us pretty much deserves the face he is wearing. He designed it form the inside.
I do not see why the schoolmaster should be taxed to support the priest, and not the priest the schoolmaster.
A good, very good, not to say admirable schoolmaster, but then he is only a schoolmaster.
I really try to ask myself the question of nine. Will this matter in nine minutes, nine hours, nine days, nine weeks, nine months or nine years? If it will truly matter for all of those, pay attention to it.
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