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?

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

I think it makes small difference to the dead if they are buried in the tokens of luxury. All this is an empty glorification left for those who live.

We and the dead ride quick at night. 

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

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. 

Death keeps no calendar.

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!

I order that my funeral ceremonies be extremely modest, and that they take place at dawn or at the evening Ave Maria, without song or music.

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

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

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