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Not dead, but gone before.
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Not going home is already like death.
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Not ignorance, but ignorance of ignorance is the death of knowledge.
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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.
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Nothing in life is promised except death.
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Now comes the mystery.
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Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground–long heath, brown furze, anything.
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O Death the Healer, scorn thou not, I pray, To come to me: of cureless ills thou art The one physician. Pain lays not its touch Upon a corpse.
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O death! thou gentle end of human sorrows.
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O Death, all eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when ’tis man we love.
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O Death, what are thou? nurse of dreamless slumbers freshening the fevered flesh to a wakefulness eternal.
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O Death, what art thou? a Lawgiver that never altereth, Fixing the consummating seal, whereby the deeds of life become established; O Death, what art thou? a stern and silent usher, Leading to the judgment for Eternity, after the trial scene of Time; O Death, what art thou? an husbandman that reapeth always, Out of season, as in season, with the sickle in his hand.
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O death, where is thy, sting? O grave where is thy victory?
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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 stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic jacet!
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‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘how much a fool was I To be of such a weak and silly mind To wail his death who lives, and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind! For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
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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.
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O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure?
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O what fine thought we had because we thought that the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
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O, I see that life cannot exhibit all to me, as day cannot, I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.
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O, sir! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket.
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