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

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.

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

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

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

I imagined it was more difficult to die. 

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.

Death renders all equal.

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 do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

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.

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

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