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. 

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

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!

There is no man so fortunate that there shall not be by him when he is dying some who are pleased with what is going to happen.

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

You are dust, and to dust you shall return.

To desire immortality for the individual is really the same as wanting to perpetuate an error forever.

I looked and there was a pale green horse! Its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed with him.

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

A god cannot procure death for himself, even if he wished it, which, so numerous are the evils of life, has been granted to man as our chief good.

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.

Life is a farce, and should not end with a mourning scene.