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