When a man dies, and his kin are glad of it, they say, “He is better off.”

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

The only evidence, so far as I know, about another life is, first, that we have no evidence; and, secondly, that we are rather sorry that we have not, and wish we had.

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

Death renders all equal.

Under the wide and starry sky, / Dig the grave and let me lie.

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.

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

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.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

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!

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