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Death: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
O, such a day, So fought, so follow'd and so fairly won.— Shakespeare — Henry IV. Pt. II. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 20.
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton.— Shakespeare — King John. Act III. Sc. 3. L. 34.
What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done, That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar?— Shakespeare — King John. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 84.
Day is the Child of Time, And Day must cease to be: But Night is without a sire, And cannot expire, One with Eternity.— R. H. STODDARD — Day and Night.
"A day for Gods to stoop," *** ay, And men to soar.— TENNYSON — The Lover's Tale. L. 304.
One of those heavenly days that cannot die.— WORDSWORTH — Nutting.
"I've lost a day"-the prince who nobly cried, Had been an emperor without his crown.— YOUNG — Night Thoughts. Night II. L. 99.
The spirit walks of every day deceased.— YOUNG — Night Thoughts. Night II. L. 180.
Death is a black camel, which kneels at the gates of all.
Sure 'tis a serious thing to die! My soul! What a strange moment must it be, when, near Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view! That awful gulf, no mortal e'er repass'd To tell what's doing on the other side.— BLAIR — The Grave. L. 369.
'Tis long since Death had the majority.— BLAIR — The Grave. I.. 451.
The thousand doors that lead to death.— SIR THOMAS BROWNE — Religio Medici. Pt. I. Sec. XLIV.
For I say, this is death and the sole death, When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest.— ROBERT BROWNING — A Death in the
Desert. But, oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early.— BURNS — Highland Mary.
Friend Ralph! thou hast Outrun the constable at last!— BUTLER — Hudibras. Pt. I. Canto III. L. 1,367.
All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.— BRYANT — Thanatopsis.
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!— S. BYRON — Don Juan. Canto III. St. 108.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.— BYRON — Don Juan. Canto XIV. St. 3.
Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away, Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. น.— BYRON — A Sketch.
Heaven gives its favourites-early death.— BYRON — Childe Harold. Canto IV. St. 102. Also Don Juan. Canto IV. Canto IV. St. 12.
He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers) And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there.— BYRON — The Giaour. L. 68.
Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood!— BYRON — Prisoner of Chillon. St. 8.
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.— BYRON — Childe Harold. Canto IV. St. 179.
Brougham delivered a very warm panegyric upon the ex-Chancellor, and expressed a hope that he would make a good end, although to an expiring Chancellor death was now armed with a new terror. C.— CAMPBELL — Lives of the Chancellors. Vol. VII. P. 163.
At length, fatigued with life, he bravely fell, And health with Boerhaave bade the world farewell.— BENJ. CHURCH — The Choice. 1754.
Some men make a womanish complaint that it is a great misfortune to die before our time. I would ask what time? Is it that of Nature? But she, indeed, has lent us life, as we do a sum or money, only no certain day is fixed for payment. What reason then to complain if she demands it at pleasure, since it was on this condition that you received it.— CICERO
Let us not doubt that God has a father's pity towards us, and that in the removal of that which is dearest to us He is still loving and kind. Death separates, but it also unites. It reunites whom it separates.— ABRAHAM COLES — Memorial Volume.
Thank God for death: bright thing with dreary name, We wrong with mournful flowers her pure, still brow.— SUSAN COOLIDGE — Benedicam Domino.
All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream; The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him, ignoble graves.— COWPER — Task. Bk. III. L. 261.
Round, round the cypress bier Where she lies sleeping, On every turf a tear, Let us go weeping! Wail!— GEORGE DARLEY — Dirge.
And though mine arm should conquer twenty worlds, There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors.— THOMAS DEKKER — Old Fortunatus. Act I. Sc. 1.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death.— DONNE — Divine Poems. Holy Sonnets. No. 17.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear To be we know not what, we know not where.— DRYDEN — Aurengzebe. Act IV. Sc. 1.
He was exhal'd; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.— DRYDEN — On the Death of a Very Young
Gentleman. Like a led victim, to my death I'll go, And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.— DRYDEN — The Spanish Friar. Act II. Sc. 1. L. 64.
Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long.— DRYDEN — Edipus. Act IV. Sc. 1. L. 265.
Xerxes the great did die; And so must you and I. From the New England Primer. 1814. Death is the king of this world: 'tis his park Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain Are music for his banquet.— GEORGE ELIOT — Spanish Gypsy. Bk. II.
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home: Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.— EMERSON — Good-Bye.
He thought it happier to be dead, To die for Beauty, than live for bread.— S. EMERSON — Beauty. L. 25.
Drawing near her death, she sent most pious thoughts as harbingers to heaven; and her soul saw a glimpse of happiness through the chinks of her sicknesse broken body.— FULLER — The Holy and the Profane State. Bk. I. Ch. II.
To die is landing on some silent shore, Where billows never break nor tempests roar; Ere well we feel the friendly stroke 'tis o'er.— SIR SAMUEL GARTH — The Dispensary. Canto III. L. 225.
The prince who kept the world in awe, The judge whose dictate fix'd the law; The rich, the poor, the great, the small, Are levell'd; death confounds 'em all.— GAY — Fables. Pt. II. Fable 16.
Where the brass knocker, wrapt in flannel band, Forbids the thunder of the footman's hand, Th' upholder, rueful harbinger of death, Waits with impatience for the dying breath.— GAY — Trivia. Bk. II L. 467.
None who e'er knew her can believe her dead; Though, should she die, they deem it well might be Her spirit took its everlasting flight In summer's glory, by the sunset sea, That onward through the Golden Gate is fled. Ah, where that bright soul is cannot be night.— R. W. GILDER — "H. H."
What if thou be saint or sinner, Crooked gray-beard, straight beginner,- Empty paunch, or jolly dinner, When Death thee shall call. All alike are rich and richer, King with crown, and cross-legged stitcher, When the grave hides all.— R. W. GILDER — Drinking Song.
Ye living soldiers of the mighty war, Once more from roaring cannon and the drums And bugles blown at morn, the summons comes; Forget the halting limb, each wound and scar: Once more your Captain calls to you; Come to his last review!— R. W. GILDER — The Burial of Grant.
Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?— GRAY — Elegy. St. 11.
The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.— GRAY — Progress of Poesy. III. 2. L. 99.
Fling but a stone, the giant dies.— MATTHEW GREEN — The Spleen. L. 93.
Death borders upon our birth; and our cradle stands in our grave.— BISHOP HALL — Epistles. Decade III.
Ep. II. Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath! Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke!— FITZ — GREENE HALLECK-Marco
Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance and wine; And thou art terrible, -the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine.— FITZ — GREENE HALLECK-Marco
Bozzaris. Ere the dolphin dies Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath Are tropic winds before the voice of death.— FITZ — GREENE HALLECK-Fortune.
The ancients dreaded death: the Christian can only fear dying. J. C. and A. W. HARE-Guesses at Truth. On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners, lean over his grave. The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle; He heeds not, he hears not; he's free from all pain. He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle; No sound can awake him to glory again!— LEONARD HEATH — The Grave of
Bonaparte. Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower.— BISHOP HEBER — At a Funeral. St. 3.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high! They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die.— MRS. HEMANS — A Dirge. Calm on the
Bosom of thy God. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death.— MRS. HEMANS — The Hour of Death.
The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.— O. W. HOLMES — The Last Leaf.
And they die An equal death, -the idler and the man Of mighty deeds.— HOMER — The Iliad. Bk. IX. L. 396.
Bryant's trans. He slept an iron sleep,- Slain fighting for his country.— HOMER — The Iliad. Bk. XI. L. 285.
Bryant's trans. Then Sleep and Death, two twins of winged race, Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace.— HOMER — The Iliad. Bk. XVI. L. 831.
Pope's trans. One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!— HOOD — Bridge of Sighs.
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. * * * * * * Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.— HOOD — The Death-bed.
Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.— SAM'L JOHNSON — Verses on the Death of Mr. Robert Levet. St. 9.
Strange-is it not?-that of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the road Which to discover we must travel too.— OMAR KHAYYAM — Rubaiyat. St. 68.
The world will turn when we are earth As though we had not come nor gone; There was no lack before our birth, When we are gone there will be none. OMAR KHAYYAM. Bodenstedt's trans. The merry, merry lark was up and singing, And the hare was out and feeding on the lea; And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, When my child's laugh rang through me. Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard, And the lark beside the dreary winter sea; And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.— CHARLES KINGSLEY — A Lament.
Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.— CHARLES LAMB — Hester. St. 1.
One destin'd period men in common have, The great, the base, the coward, and the brave, All food alike for worms, companions in the grave.— LORD LANSDOWNE — Meditation on
Death. And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.— LONGFELLOW — Evangeline. Pt. II. V.
Death never takes one alone, but two! Whenever he enters in at a door, Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, He always leaves it upon the latch, And comes again ere the year is o'er, Never one of a household only.— LONGFELLOW — Christus. The Golden Legend. Pt. VI. The Farm-House
in the Odenwald. Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old!— LONGFELLOW — Three Friends of Mine. Pt. II.
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, A shadow on those features fair and thin; And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, Two angels issued, where but one went in.— LONGFELLOW — The Two Angels. St. 9.
There is a Reaper whose name is Death, And with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between.— LONGFELLOW — The Reaper and the
Flowers. There is no confessor like unto Death! Thou canst not see him, but he is near: Thou needest not whisper above thy breath, And he will hear; He will answer the questions, The vague surmises and suggestions, That fill thy soul with doubt and fear.— LONGFELLOW — Christus. The Golden Legend. Pt. V. The Inn at Genoa.
There is no Death! What seems so is transi tion; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death.— LONGFELLOW — Resignation.
There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair.— LONGFELLOW — Resignation.
The young may die, but the old must!— LONGFELLOW — Christus. The Golden Legend. Pt. IV. The Cloisters.
But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet Lessen like sound of friends' departing feet; And Death is beautiful as feet of friend Coming with welcome at our journey's end. C.— LOWELL — An Epistle to George William
Curtis. Though in midst of life we be Snares of death surround us.— MARTIN LUTHER — Hymn XVIII.
To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late, And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?— MACAULAY — Lays of Ancient Rome.
Horatius. XXVII. I want to meet my God awake. CARLYLE attributes the saying to MARIA THERESA, who refused to take morphine. She thought our good-night kiss was given, And like a lily her life did close; Angels uncurtain'd that repose, And the next waking dawn'd in heaven.— GERALD MASSEY — The Ballad of Babe
Christabel. Death hath a thousand doors to let out life. I shall find one.— MASSINGER — A Very Woman. Act V. Sc. 4.
There's nothing certain in man's life but this: That he must lose it. OWEN MEREDITH (Lord Lytton)- Clytemnestra. Pt. XX. Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.— JOAQUIN MILLER — Even So. St. 35.
They are fair resting-places For the dear, weary dead on their way up to heaven.— JOAQUIN MILLER — Ina. Sc. 1.
And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook, but delay'd to strike, though oft invoked.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. XI. L. 491.
Before mine eyes in opposition sits Grim Death, my son and foe.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. II. L. 803.
Behind her Death Close following pace for pace, not mounted yet On his pale horse.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. X. L. 588.
Death Grinned horrible a ghastly smile, to hear His famine should be filled.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. II. L. 845.
Eas'd the putting off These troublesome disguises which we wear.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. IV. L. 739.
I fled, and cried out Death; Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd From all her caves, and back resounded Death.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. II. L. 787.
O fairest flower; no sooner blown but blasted, Soft, silken primrose fading timelessly.— MILTON — Ode on the Death of a Fair
Infant Dying of a Cough. So spake the grisly Terror. S.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. II. L. 704.
That golden key That opes the palace of eternity.— MILTON — Comus. L. 13.
There's nothing terrible in death; 'Tis but to cast our robes away, And sleep at night, without a breath To break repose till dawn of day.— MONTGOMERY — In Memory of E. G.
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.— MOORE — Song. Weep not for Those.
But since, howe'er protracted, death will come Why fondly study, with ingenious pains, To put it off?— To breathe a little longer
Is to defer our fate, but not to shun it.— HANNAH MORE — David and Goliath.
How short is human life! the very breath, Which frames my words, accelerates my death.— HANNAH MORE — King Hezekiah.
Two hands upon the breast, And labor's done; Two pale feet cross'd in rest, The race is won.— D. M. MULOCK — Now and Afterwards.
And die with decency.— THOMAS OTWAY — Venice Preserved. Act V. Sc. 3.
Death's but a path that must be trod, If man would ever pass to God.— PARNELL — A Night-Piece on Death. L. 67.
What shall we do now, Mary being dead, Or say, or write, that shall express the half? What can we do but pillow that fair head, And let the springtime write her epitaph?— THOMAS WM. PARSONS — Dirge.
Death comes to all. His cold and sapless hand Waves o'er the world, and beckons us away. Who shall resist the summons? THOMAS LOVE PEACOCk-Tite. O lady, he is dead and gone! Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone.— THOS. PERCY — Reliques. The Friar of
Orders Gray. For death betimes is comfort, not dismay, And who can rightly die needs no delay.— PETRARCH — To Laura in Death. Canzone V. St. 6.
Come! let the burial rite be read- The funeral song be sung!- An anthem for the queenliest dead That ever died so young- A dirge for her, the doubly dead In that she died so young.— POE — Lenore. St. 1.
Out-out are the lights-out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm.— POE — The Conqueror Worm. St. 5.
A heap of dust alone remains of thee; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!— POPE — Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady. L. 73.
But thousands die without or this or that, Die, and endow a college or a cat.— POPE — Moral Essays. Ep. III. L. 95.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd.— POPE — Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady. L. 51.
O Death, all eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.— POPE — Eloisa to Abelard. L. 355.
See my lips tremble and my eyeballs roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul !— POPE — Eloisa to Abelard. L. 323.
Tell me, my soul! can this be death?— POPE — The Dying Christian to His Soul.
Paraphrased from Hadrian. The world recedes; it disappears; Heav'n opens on my eyes; my ears With sounds seraphic ring : Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting?— POPE — The Dying Christian to His Soul.
Paraphrased from Hadrian. Till tired, he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.— POPE — Essay on Man. Ep. II. L. 282.
Teach him how to live, And, oh! still harder lesson! how to die.— BISHOP PORTEUS — Death. L. 316.
Death aims with fouler spite At fairer marks.— QUARLES — Divine Poems. Ed. 1669.
O eloquent, just, and mighty Death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised: thou hast drawn together all the far stretchèd greatness, all the pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet!— SIR WALTER RALEIGH — Historie of the World. Bk. V. Pt. I. Ch. 6.
Not dead, but gone before.— SAM'L ROGERS — Human Life.
Sleep that no pain shall wake, Night that no morn shall break, Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Dream-Land. St. 4.
There is no music more for him: His lights are out, his feast is done; His bowl that sparkled to the brim Is drained, is broken, cannot hold.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — A Peal of
Bells. When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, No shady cypress tree.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Song.
Death is the privilege of human nature, And life without it were not worth our taking: Thither the poor, the pris'ner, and the mourner Fly for relief, and lay their burthens down.— NICHOLAS ROWE — The Fair Penitent. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 138.
Oh, stanch thy bootlesse teares, thy weeping is in vaine; I am not lost, for we in heaven shall one day meet againe. Roxburghe Ballads. The Bride's Buriall. Edited by Chas. Hindley. Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death.— SCHILLER — The Assignation. St. 4.
Lord Lytton's trans. Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone! Earth flits fast and time draws on: Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan! Day is near the breaking.— SCOTT — Death Chant.
Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!— SCOTT — Lady of the Lake. Canto III. St. 16.
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast, And the sleep be on thee cast That shall ne'er know waking.— SCOTT — Guy Mannering. Ch. XXVII.
He whom we thought dead, is only gone before us.— SENECA — Consolatory, on the Death
of a Son. Ep. XCVII.
After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further.— Shakespeare — Macbeth. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 23.
A'made a finer end and went away an it had been any christom child; a' parted even just between twelve and one, e'en at the turning o' th' tide: for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields. "How now, Sir John?" quoth I: "what, man! be o' good cheer." So a' cried out "God, God, God!" three or four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a'should not think of God; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet.— Shakespeare — Henry V. Act II. Sc. 3. L. 12.
A man can die but once; we owe God a death.— Shakespeare — Henry IV. Pt. II. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 250.
And there at Venice gave His body to that pleasant country's earth, And his pure soul unto his captain Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long.— Shakespeare — Richard II. Act IV. Sc. 1. L. 97.
And we shall feed like oxen at a stall, The better cherish'd, still the nearer death.— Shakespeare — Henry IV. Pt. I. Act V. Sc. 2. L. 14.
Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath: I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, Oh, prepare it! My part of death no one so true Did share it.— Shakespeare — Twelfth Night. Act II. Sc. 4. L. 52.
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd; No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head.— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act I. Sc. 5. L. 76.
Dar'st thou die? The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great As when a giant dies. γ. Measure for Measure. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 77. Death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come. Julius Cæsar. Act II. Sc. 2. L. 36. Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to ali; all shall die.— Shakespeare — Henry IV. Pt. II. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 41.
Death, death'; oh, amiable, lovely death! * * * * * * Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest. C.— Shakespeare — King John. Act III. Sc. 4. D. 34.
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.— Shakespeare — Romeo and Juliet. Act IV. Sc. 5. L. 28.
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty; Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there.— Shakespeare — Romeo and Juliet. Act V. Sc. 3. L. 92.
Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death.— Shakespeare — Romeo and Juliet. Act V. Sc. 3. L. 112.
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. Venus and Adonis. L. 1,019. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.— Shakespeare — Cymbeline. Act IV. Sc. 2. Song. L. 262.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 66.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire, That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand. Hath with thy king's blood stain'd the king's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.— Shakespeare — Richard II. Act V. Sc. 5. L. 107.
Have I not hideous death within my view, Retaining but a quantity of life Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax Resolveth from its figure 'gainst the fire?— Shakespeare — Kina John. Act V. Sc. 4. L. 22.
He dies, and makes no sign.— Shakespeare — Henry VI. Pt. II. Act III. Sc. 3. L. 28.
He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.— Shakespeare — Henry VIII. Act IV. Sc. 2. L. 29.
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.— Shakespeare — Othello. Act V. Sc. 2. L. 267.
He that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death. Julius Cæsar. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 101. He that dies pays all debts.— Shakespeare — Tempest. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 140.
How oft, when men are at the point of death, Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death.— Shakespeare — Romeo and Juliet. Act V. Sc. 3. L. 88.
I do not set my life at a pin's fee; And, for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself?— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act I. Sc. 4. L. 67.
If I must die I will encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in mine arms. S.— Shakespeare — Measure for Measure. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 83
Let's choose executors and talk of wills: And yet not so, for what can we bequeath, Save our desposed bodies to the ground?— Shakespeare — Richard II. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 148.
My sick heart shows That I must yield my body to the earth, And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle: Under whose shade the ramping lion slept : Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree, And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind. น.— Shakespeare — Henry VI. Pt. III. Act V. Sc. 2. L. 8.
Nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.— Shakespeare — Richard II. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 152.
Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it.— Shakespeare — Macbeth. Act I. Sc. 4. L. 7.
O, our lives' sweetness! That we the pain of death would hourly die Rather than die at once!— Shakespeare — King Lear. Act V. Sc. 3. L. 184.
O proud death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck?— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act V. Sc. 2. L. 375.
Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature.— Shakespeare — Macbeth. Act III. Sc. 4. L. 26.
That we shall die we know; 'tis but the time And drawing days out, that men stand upon. Julius Cæsar. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 99. The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 115.
The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury and imprisonment Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death.— Shakespeare — Measure for Measure. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 129.
The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.— Shakespeare — Tempest. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 70.
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act I. Sc. 2. L. 72.
''Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are unprepared and look not for it.— Shakespeare — Richard III. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 64.
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence roundabout The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and incertain thought Imagine howling; 'tis too horrible!— Shakespeare — Measure for Measure. Act III. Sc. 1. Sc. 1. L. 124.
To die:-to sleep : No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 60.
We cannot hold mortality's strong hand.— Shakespeare — King John. Act IV. Sc. 2. L. 82.
We must die, Messala: With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now. Julius Cæsar. Act IV. Sc. 3. L.
We should profane the service of the dead, To sing a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 259.
What, is the old king dead? As nail in door.— Shakespeare — Henry IV. Pt. II. Act V. Sc. 3. L. 126
What's yet in this, That bears the name of life? Yet in this life Lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even.— Shakespeare — Measure for Measure. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 38.
When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. Julius Cæsar. Act II. Sc. 2. L. 30. Who pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood With that grim ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. Richard III. Act. I. Sc. 4. L. 45. Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.— Shakespeare — Henry VI. Pt. III. Act V. Sc. 2. L. 27.
Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp.— Shakespeare — S. Richard II. Act III. Sc. 2. L. 161.
Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; The worst is death, and death will have his day. Richard II. Act. III. Sc. 2. L. 102. First our pleasures die-and then Our hopes, and then our fears-and when These are dead, the debt is due, Dust claims dust-and we die too.— SHELLEY — Death. (1820).
U. How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep!— SHELLEY — Queen Mab. L. 1.
All buildings are but monuments of death, All clothes but winding-sheets for our last knell, All dainty fattings for the worms beneath, All curious music but our passing bell: Thus death is nobly waited on, for why? All that we have is but death's livery.— SHIRLEY
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.— SHIRLEY — Cupid and Death.
He that on his pillow lies, Fear-embalmed before he dies Carries, like a sheep, his life, To meet the sacrificer's knife, And for eternity is prest, Sad bell-wether to the rest.— SHIRLEY — The Passing Bell.
The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate, Death lays his icy hand on kings. Scepter and crown Must tumble down, And, in the dust, be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.— SHIRLEY — Contention of Ajax and Ulysses. Sc. 3.
Yet 'twill only be a sleep: When, with songs and dewy light, Morning blossoms out of Night, She will open her blue eyes 'Neath the palms of Paradise, While we foolish ones shall weep. C.— EDWARD ROWLAND SILL — Sleeping.
We count it death to falter, not to die.— SIMONIDES — Jacobs I. 63, 20.
To our graves we walk In the thick footprints of departed men.— ALEX. SMITH — Horton. L. 570.
Death! to the happy thou art terrible; But how the wretched love to think of thee, O thou true comforter! the friend of all Who have no friend beside!— SOUTHEY — Joan of Arc. Bk. I. L. 318.
A man after death is not a natural but a spiritual man; nevertheless he still appears in all respects like himself.— SWEDENBORG — Conjugal Love. Par. 31.
And hands that wist not though they dug a grave, Undid the hasps of gold, and drank, and gave, And he drank after, a deep glad kingly draught: And all their life changed in them, for they quaffed Death; if it be death so to drink, and fare As men who change and are what these twain were.— SWINBURNE — Tristram of Lyonesse. The Sailing of the Swallow. L. 789.
Death, if thou wilt, fain would I plead with thee: Canst thou not spare, of all our hopes have built, One shelter where our spirits fain would be, Death, if thou wilt?— SWINBURNE — A Dialogue. St. 1.
For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, Take at my hands this garland and farewell. Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother.— SWINBURNE — Ave Atque Vale. St. 18.
Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.— BAYARD TAYLOR — The Picture of St. John. Bk. III. St. 84.
He that would die well must always look for death, every day knocking at the gates of the grave; and then the gates of the grave shall never prevail upon him to do him mischief.— JEREMY TAYLOR — Holy Dying. Ch. II. Pt. I.
Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee.— TENNYSON — In Memoriam. LXXIV.
God's finger touched him, and he slept.— TENNYSON — In Memoriam. LXXXV.
The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.— TENNYSON — Mariana in the South.
Last stanza. Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death.— TENNYSON — Two Voices. St. 132.
I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says, I must not stay; I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away.— TICKELL — Colin and Iucy.
Boatman, come, thy fare receive; Thrice thy fare I gladly give, For unknown, unseen by thee, Spirits twain have crossed with me.— UHLAND — The Ferry Boat. Skeat's
trans. But God, who is able to prevail, wrestled with him, as the angel did with Jacob, and marked him; marked him for his own.— S. IZAAK WALTON — Life of Donne.
The tall, the wise, the reverend head, Must lie as low as ours.— ISAAC WATTS — Hymns and Spiritual Songs. Bk. II. Hymn 63.
I know death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits. U— JOHN WEBSTER — Duchess of Malfi. Act IV. Sc. 2.
How beautiful it is for a man to die Upon the walls of Zion! to be called Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel, To put his armour off, and rest in heaven!— WILLIS — On the Death of a Missionary.
For I know that Death is a guest divine, Who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine; And he cares for nothing! a king is he- Come on, old fellow, and drink with me! With you I will drink to the solemn past, Though the cup that I drain should be my last.— WILLIAM WINTER — Orgia. The Song
of a Ruined Man. But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.— CHAS. WOLFE — The Burial of Sir John
Moore. If I had thought thou couldst have died I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be; It never through my mind had passed, That time would e'er be o'er When I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!— CHAS. WOLFE — Song. The Death of
Mary. O, sir! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket.— WORDSWORTH — The Excursion. Bk. I.
He first deceased: she for a little tried To live without him, lik'd it not, and died.— SIR HENRY WOTTON — On the Death of
Sir Albert Morton's Wife. A death-bed's a detector of the heart.— YOUNG — Night Thoughts. Night II. L. 641.
And feels a thousand deaths, in fearing one.— YOUNG — Night Thoughts. Night IV. L. 17.
Death is the crown of life; Were death denyed, poor man would live in vain; Were death denyed, to live would not be life; Were death denyed, ev'n fools would wish to die.— YOUNG — Night Thoughts. Night III. L. 523.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.— YOUNG — Night Thoughts. Night V. L. 1,011.
Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum Illuc unde negant redire quemquam, Who now travels that dark path to the bourne from which they say no one returns.— CATULLUS — Carmina. III. 11.
Soles occidere et redire possunt; Nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, Nox est perpetua una dormienda. Suns may set and rise; we, when our short day has closed, must sleep on during one never-ending night.— CATULLUS — Carmina. V. 4.
Emori nolo: sed me esse mortuum nihil æstimo. I do not wish to die: but I care not if I were dead.— CICERO — Tusculanarum Disputationum.
I. 8. Supremus ille dies non nostri extinctionem sed commutationem affert loci. That last day does not bring extinction to us, but change of place.— CICERO — Tusculanarum Disputationum.
I. 49. Undique enim ad inferos tantundem viæ est. There are countless roads on all sides to the grave.— CICERO — Tusculanarum Disputationum.
Vetat dominans ille in nobis deus, injussu hinc nos suo demigrare. The divinity who rules within us, forbids us to leave this world without his command.— CICERO — Tusculanarum Disputationum.
I. 30. Death levels all things.— CLAUDIANUS — De Raptu Proserpinæ.
II. 302. Mors ultima linea rerum est. Death is the last limit of all things.— HORACE — Epistolæ. I. 16. 79.
Omne capax movet urna nomen. In the capacious urn of death, every name is shaken.— HORACE — Carmina. III. 1. 16.
Omnes eodem cogimur; omnium Versatur urnâ serius, ocius Sors exitura. We are all compelled to take the same road; from the urn of death, shaken for all, sooner or later the lot must come forth.— HORACE — Carmina. II. 3. 25.
Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas Regumque turres. Pale death, with impartial step, knocks at the hut of the poor and the palaces of kings.— HORACE — Carmina. I. 4. 13.
Mors sola fatetur Quantula sint hominum corpuscula. Death alone discloses how insignificant are the puny bodies of men.— JUVENAL — Satiræ. X. 172.
Pavido fortique cadendum est. The coward and the courageous alike must die.— LUCAN — Pharsalia. IX. 582.
S. Victorosque dei celant, ut vivere durent, Felix esse mori. The gods conceal from those destined to live how sweet it is to die, that they may continue living.— LUCAN — Pharsalia. IV. 519.
Adde repertores doctrinarum atque leporum; Adde Heliconiadum comites; quorum unus Homerus Sceptra potitus, eadem aliis sopitu quiete est. Nay, the greatest wits and poets, too, cease to live; Homer, their prince, sleeps now in the same forgotten sleep as do the others.— LUCRETIUS — De Rerum Natura.
III. 1,049. Nascentes morimur, finisque ab origine pendet. We begin to die as soon as we are born, and the end is linked to the beginning.— MANILIUS — Astronomica. IV. 16.
Hic rogo non furor est ne moriare mori? This I ask, is it not madness to kill thyself in order to escape death?— MARTIAL — Epigrammata. II. 80. 2.
Nec mihi mors gravis est posituro morte dolores. Death is not grievous to me, for I shall lay aside my pains by death. C.— OVID — Metamorphoses. III. 471.
Quocunque adspicias, nihil est nisi mortis imago. Wherever you look there is nothing but the image of death.— OVID — Tristium. I. 2. 23.
Stulte, quid est somnus, gelidæ nisi mortis imago? Longa quiescendi tempora fata dabunt. Thou fool, what is sleep but the image of death? Fate will give an eternal rest.— OVID — Amorum. II. 9. 41.
Ultima semper Expectanda dies homini est, dicique beatus Ante obitum nemo et suprema funera debet. Man should ever look to his last day, and no one should be called happy before his funeral.— OVID — Metamorphoses. III. 135.
Quem di diligunt adolescens moritur dum valet, sentit, sapit. He whom the gods love dies young, while he is in health, has his senses and his judgment sound.— PLAUTUS — Bacchides. IV. 7. 18.
Omnibus a supremâ die eadem, quæ ante primum; nec magis a morte sensus ullus aut corpori aut animæ quam ante natalem. His last day places man in the same state as he was before he was born; nor after death has the body or soul any more feeling than they had before birth. PLINY the Elder-Historia Naturalis. LVI. 1. Nec forma æternum, aut cuiquam est fortuna perennis. Longius, aut propius, mors sua quemque manet. Beauty is fading, nor is fortune stable; sooner or later death comes to all.— PROPERTIUS — Elegiæ. II. 28. 57.
Optima mors parca quæ venit apta die. That death is best which comes appropriately at a ripe age.— PROPERTIUS — Elegiæ. III. 5. 18.
La mort sans phrase. Death without phrases. Alluding to the long addresses made by ROBESPIERRE and his men when voting. Le lâche fuit en vain; la mort vole à sa suite; C'est en la défiant que le brave l'évite. It is vain for the coward to flee; death follows close behind; it is only by defying it that the brave escape.— VOLTAIRE — Le Triumvirat. IV. 7.
Nous sommes tous mortels, et chacun est pour soi. We are all mortal, and each one is for himself.— MOLIÈRE — L'École des Femmes. II. 6.
Je voudrais bien voir la grimace qu'il fait à cette heure sur cet échafaud. I would love to see the grimace he [Marquis de Cinq-Mars] is now making on the scaffold.— LOUIS XIII — See Histoire de Louis