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

Death keeps no calendar.

Let my epitaph be, “Here lies Joseph, who failed in everything he undertook.”

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.

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

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 do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

Nobody, sir, dies willingly.

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

The dead are often just as living to us as the living are, only we cannot get them to believe it. They can come to us, but till we die we cannot go to them. To be dead is to be unable to understand that one is alive. 

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.

Death renders all equal.

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.