When he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.
To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, which hurts, and is desired.
All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns.
Death is a fearful thing.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
