Quotes About Death

For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession liesA lass unparallel'd.

Falstaff sweats to deathAnd lards the lean earth as he walks along.

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.

They are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time: after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

Murder most foul, as in the best it is.

Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die.

Thou know'st 'tis common; all that live must die,Passing through nature to eternity.

How oft when men are at the point of deathHave they been merry!

If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor.

I would fain die a dry death.

Set honor in one eye and death i' the other,And I will look on both indifferently.

The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;This sensible warm motion to becomeA kneaded clod; and the delighted spiritTo bathe in fiery floods, or to resideIn thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,And blown with restless violence round aboutThe pendant world.

How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!

The weariest and most loathed worldly lifeThat age, ache, penury, and imprisonmentCan lay on nature is a paradiseTo what we fear of death.

Duncan is in his grave;After life's fitful fever he sleeps well;Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothingCan touch him further.

If it were now to die,'Twere now to be most happy.

'Tis strange that death should sing.I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death.

Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway'd?Is the king dead? the empire unpossess'd?

Tut, tut, good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder; they'll fill a pit as well as better.

And my large kingdom for a little grave,A little little grave, an obscure grave.

The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

O proud death!What feast is toward in thine eternal cell?