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In this last scene of death, there is no more counterfeiting
Inclination to love one another at the first sight
Indocile liberty of this member
Insensible of the stroke when our youth dies in us
Live at the expense of life itself.
Much better to offend him once than myself every day
Nature, who left us in such a state of imperfection
Neither men nor their lives are measured by the ell
No man more certain than another of to-morrow.—Seneca
No one can be called happy till he is dead and buried
Not certain to live till I came home
Not melancholic, but meditative
Nothing can be a grievance that is but once
Philosophy is nothing but to prepare one’s self to die
Premeditation of death is the premeditation of liberty
Profit made only at the expense of another
Rather prating of another man’s province than his own
Same folly as to be sorry we were not alive a hundred years ago
Slaves, or exiles, ofttimes live as merrily as other folk
some people rude, by being overcivil in their courtesy
The day of your birth is one day’s advance towards the grave
The deadest deaths are the best
The thing in the world I am most afraid of is fear
There is no long, nor short, to things that are no more
Thing at which we all aim, even in virtue is pleasure
Things often appear greater to us at distance than near at hand
To study philosophy is nothing but to prepare one’s self to die
Utility of living consists not in the length of days
Valour has its bounds as well as other virtues
Valuing the interest of discipline
Well, and what if it had been death itself?
What may be done to-morrow, may be done to-day.
Who would weigh him without the honour and grandeur of his end.
Willingly slip the collar of command upon any pretence whatever
Woman who goes to bed to a man, must put off her modesty
You must first see us die
Young and old die upon the same terms
In this last scene of death, there is no more counterfeiting
Inclination to love one another at the first sight
Indocile liberty of this member
Insensible of the stroke when our youth dies in us
Live at the expense of life itself.
Much better to offend him once than myself every day
Nature, who left us in such a state of imperfection
Neither men nor their lives are measured by the ell
No man more certain than another of to-morrow.—Seneca
No one can be called happy till he is dead and buried
Not certain to live till I came home
Not melancholic, but meditative
Nothing can be a grievance that is but once
Philosophy is nothing but to prepare one’s self to die
Premeditation of death is the premeditation of liberty
Profit made only at the expense of another
Rather prating of another man’s province than his own
Same folly as to be sorry we were not alive a hundred years ago
Slaves, or exiles, ofttimes live as merrily as other folk
some people rude, by being overcivil in their courtesy
The day of your birth is one day’s advance towards the grave
The deadest deaths are the best
The thing in the world I am most afraid of is fear
There is no long, nor short, to things that are no more
Thing at which we all aim, even in virtue is pleasure
Things often appear greater to us at distance than near at hand
To study philosophy is nothing but to prepare one’s self to die
Utility of living consists not in the length of days
Valour has its bounds as well as other virtues
Valuing the interest of discipline
Well, and what if it had been death itself?
What may be done to-morrow, may be done to-day.
Who would weigh him without the honour and grandeur of his end.
Willingly slip the collar of command upon any pretence whatever
Woman who goes to bed to a man, must put off her modesty
You must first see us die
Young and old die upon the same terms
