Death takes us piecemeal, not at a gulp.

There is nothing after death, and death itself is nothing.

He that dies pays all debts.

Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither.

The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

The tongues of dying men Enforce attention like deep harmony.

This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.

Life levels all men: death reveals the eminent.

It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery.

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead- When the cloud is scattered The rainbows glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.