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For tis not in mere death that men die most.

Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.

We die daily. Happy those who daily come to life as well.

Men die but an idea does not.

Woe, woe, woe... in a little while we shall all be dead. Therefore let us behave as though we were dead already.

There are men here and there to whom the whole of life is like an after-dinner hour with a cigar; easy, pleasant, empty, perhaps enlivened by some fable of strife to be forgotten - before the end is told - even if there happens to be any end to it.

At the end of the day, I'm a man.

There are many things which swallow up men's thoughts while they live, which they will think little of when they are dying. Hundreds are wholly absorbed in political schemes and seem to care for nothing but the advancement of their own party. Myriads are buried in business and money matters and seem to neglect everything else but this world.