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Hell and Heaven are near man, yes, in him; and every man after death goes to that Hell or heaven in which he was, or to his spirit, during his abode in the world.
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Hell isn’t an after-death experience. It’s what we live every day.
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Her cabin’d ample spirit, It fluttered and fail’d for breath; Tonight it doth inherit The vasty hall of death.
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Here at lastWe shall be free;the Almighty hath not builtHere for his envy, will not drive us hence:Here we may reign secure, and in my choiceTo reign is worth ambition though in Hell:Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.
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Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, and the hunter home from the hill.
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Here lies a king, that ruled as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit (An Elegy upon the Death of Dr John Donne)
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Here’s a guy who survived death row, who was wrongly convicted.
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He’s finished, he’s going to get the death penalty for sure.
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He’s got his sea legs back. It’s critical that he doesn’t bleed us to death.
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He’s in good spirits. Though he’s afraid to death of getting on the bus again. Of course, I can’t blame him.
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He’s the only individual responsible for the death of Kerri-Lea Dixon.
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His collection of Homer is the best collection assembled by anyone since the artist’s death.
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His last day places man in the same state as he was before he was born; not after death has the body or soul any more feeling than they had before birth. [Lat., Omnibus a suprema die eadem, quae ante primum; nec magis a morte sensus ullus aut corpori aut animae quam ante natalem.]
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History is a pact between the dead, the living, and the yet unborn.’ Edmund Burke
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How beautiful is death, when earn’d by virtue! Who would not be that youth? What pity is it That we can die but once to serve our country!
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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!
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How could they tell? (upon hearing that President Coolidge had died)
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How now! What means Death in this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death’s instrument. 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 the king’s blood stained the king’s own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.
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How oft, when men are at the point of death, Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death.
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How short is human life! the very breath Which frames my words accelerates my death.
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