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I passed (methought) the melancholy flood, With that sour ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. - William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Third (Clarence at I, iv) 'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are unprepared and look not for it. - William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Third (Catesby at III, ii) 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. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it. My part of death, no one so true Did share it. - William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, or, What You Will (Singers at II, iv), a song This youth that you see here I snatched one half out of the jaws of death; Relieved him with such sanctity of love, And to his image, which methought did promise Most venerable worth, die I devotion. - William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, or, What You Will (Antonio at III, iv) '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. - William Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis (l. 1,015) In the arts of life man invents nothing; but in the arts of death he outdoes Nature herself, and produces by chemistry and machinery all the slaughter of plague, pestilence and famine. - George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman Life levels all men: death reveals the eminent. - George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon. - Percy Bysshe Shelley First our pleasures die--and then Our hopes, and then our fears--and when These are dead, the debt is due, Dust claims dust--and we die too. - Percy Bysshe Shelley, Death The babe is at peace with the womb, The corpse is at rest within the tomb. We begin in what we end. - Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragments All buildings are but monuments of death, All clothes but winding-sheets for our last knell, All dainty fattings for the worms beneath, All curious music but our passing bell: Thus death is nobly waited on, for why? All that we have is but death's livery. - James Shirley Death lays his icy hand on kings. - James Shirley The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate, Death lays his icy hand on kings. Scepter and crown Must tumble down, And, in the dust, be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. - James Shirley, Contention of Ajax and Ulysses (sc. 3) Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. - James Shirley, Cupid and Death He that on his pillow lies, Fear-embalmed before he dies Carries, like a sheep, his life, To meet the sacrificer's knife, And for eternity is prest, Sad bell-wether to the rest. - James Shirley, The Passing Bell Who knows we have not lived before In forms that felt delight, and pain? If death is not the open door Through which we pass to life again? - David Banks Sickels Death without phrases. [Lat., La mort sans phrase.] - Count Emmanuel Joseph Sieyes, voting for the death of Louis XVI, but denied by him Yet 'twill only be a sleep: When, with songs and dewy light, Morning blossoms out of Night, She will open her blue eyes 'Neath the palms of Paradise, While we foolish ones shall weep. - Edward Rowland Sill, Sleeping Who is it that called time the avenger, yet failed to see that death was the consoler. What mortal afflictions are there to which death does not bring full remedy? What hurts of hope and body does it not repair? "This is a sharp medicine," said Raleigh, speaking of the axe, "but it cures all disorders." - William Gilmore Simms We count it death to falter, not to die. - Simonides of Ceos, Jacobs I (63, 20) Dead is she? No; rather let us call ourselves dead, who tire so soon in the service of the Master whom she has gone to serve forever. - W.S. Smart Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well. - Alexander Smith To have to die is a distinction of which no man is proud. - Alexander Smith We bury love, Forgetfulness grows over it like grass; That is a thing to weep for, not the dead. - Alexander Smith, City Poems--A Boy's Poem (pt. III) To our graves we walk In the thick footprints of departed men. - Alexander Smith, Horton (l. 570) Displaying page 30 of 36 for this topic: << Prev Next >> 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 [30] 31 32 33 34 35 36
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