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

If a man will observe as he walks the streets, I believe he will find the merriest countenances in mourning coaches.

I doubt that we have any right to pity the dead for their own sakes.

I’m doomed to die, right? Why should I care if I go to Hades either with gout in my leg or a runner’s grace? Plenty of people will carry me there.

In dealing with the dead, if we treat them as if they were entirely dead, that would show a want of affection and should not be done; or, if we treat them as if they were entirely alive, that would show a want of wisdom and should not be done.

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved.

Man has here two and a half minutes—one to smile, one to sigh, and half a one to love; for in the midst of this minute he dies.

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

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.

A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest.

Is this dying? Is this all? Is this all that I feared when I prayed against a hard death? Oh, I can bear this! I can bear it!

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