William Shakespeare Death Quotations

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

The valiant never taste of death but once.

The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.

'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.

Within the hollow crownThat rounds the mortal temples of a kingKeeps Death his court.

Death rock me asleep.

Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all.

Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.

Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

And will 'a not come again? And will 'a not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death bed: He will never come again.

To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune, Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles, And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep No more; and by a sleep, to say we end The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep, To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub.

Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?

And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?

But I will be, A bridegroom in my death, and run into't As to a lover's bed.

O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.

If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.

This thought is as a death.

For now they kill me with a living death.

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.

Death-counterfeiting sleep.

The gloomy shade of death.

What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!

O wretched state! o bosom black as death!

On pain of death, no person be so bold.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.

What is thy sentence then but speechless death.

Why, thou owest god a death.

Speak me fair in death.

Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.

Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.

Thou ominous and fearful owl of death.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.

O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!

Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.

Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.

Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.

When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.

Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.

The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!

Unsubstantial Death is amorous.

Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.

Live how we can, yet die we must.

Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.

The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

... And death unloads thee.

This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.

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

Sweets to the sweet.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.

Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come

I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God and death.

The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.

To die: - to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.

To take arms against a sea of troubles.

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

Ay, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstrution and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.

Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.

By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.

To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.

He that dies this year is quit for the next.

After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

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.

The worst is death, and death will have his day.

The weight of this sad time we must obey;Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

And nothing can we call our own but deathAnd that small model of the barren earthWhich serves as paste and cover to our bones.For God's sake, let us sit upon the groundAnd tell sad stories of the death of kings.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause; there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 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. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.