Death keeps no calendar.

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die, and you to live. Which is better, only the god knows.

The play is the tragedy “Man,” And its hero the conqueror worm.

Men have written in the most convincing manner to prove that death is no evil, and this opinion has been confirmed on a thousand celebrated occasions by the weakest of men as well as by heroes. Even so I doubt whether any sensible person has ever believed it, and the trouble men take to convince others as well as themselves that they do shows clearly that it is no easy undertaking. 

Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.

What is death? A scary mask. Take it off—see, it doesn’t bite.

The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living.

It is not my design to drink or sleep; my design is to make what haste I can to be gone.

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

I don’t believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

Can we not live without pleasure, who cannot but with pleasure die?

It is noble to die before doing anything that deserves death.