Death keeps no calendar.

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

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

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

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.

If a parricide is more wicked than anyone who commits homicide—because he kills not merely a man but a near relative—without doubt worse still is he who kills himself, because there is none nearer to a man than himself. 

Epitaph, n. An inscription on a tomb, showing that virtues acquired by death have a retroactive effect.

I do not amuse myself by thinking of dead people.

Imagine a number of men in chains, all under sentence of death, some of whom are each day butchered in the sight of the others; those remaining see their own condition in that of their fellows and, looking at each other with grief and despair, await their turn. This is an image of the human condition.

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

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

Whoever has died is freed from sin.

Those from whom we were born have long since departed, and those with whom we grew up exist only in memory. We, too, through the approach of death, become, as it were, trees growing on the sandy bank of a river.