All that nature has prescribed must be good; and as death is natural to us, it is absurdity to fear it.  Fear loses its purpose when we are sure it cannot preserve us, and we should draw resolution to meet it, from the impossibility to escape it.—­Steele.

There is nothing certain in man’s life but this, that he must lose it.—­Owen Meredith.

Death robs the rich and relieves the poor.—­J.L.  Basford.

Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release, the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure, and the comforter of him whom time cannot console.—­Colton.

Death, so called, is a thing that makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is pass’d in sleep. 
—­Byron.

The finest day of life is that on which one quits it.—­Frederick the great.

Death is delightful.  Death is dawn—­
The waking from a weary night
Of fevers unto truth and light. 

                                    —­Joaquin Miller.

The hour conceal’d and so remote the fear,
Death still draws nearer, never seeming near. 
—­Pope.

All that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity. 
—­Shakespeare.

Death gives us sleep, eternal youth, and immortality.—­Richter.

You should not fear, nor yet should you wish for your last day.  —­Martial.

No man but knows that he must die; he knows that in whatever quarter of the world he abides—­whatever be his circumstances—­however strong his present hold of life—­however unlike the prey of death he looks—­that it is his doom beyond reverse to die.—­STEBBING.

It is by no means a fact that death is the worst of all evils; when it comes, it is an alleviation to mortals who are worn out with sufferings.—­METASTASIO.

God giveth quietness at last.—­Whittier.

Death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits. 
—­John Webster.

Death will have his day.—­Shakespeare.

Death comes but once.—­Beaumont and Fletcher.

It is not I who die, when I die, but my sin and misery.—­GOTTHOLD.

Death is the crown of life.—­Young.

So live, that, when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but sustain’d and sooth’d
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one that draws the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

          
                          —­Bryant.

Debt.—­Who goes a-borrowing goeth a-sorrowing.—­TUSSER.