Death is but what the haughty brave, / The weak must bear, the wretch must crave. Byron.
Death is sure / To those that stay and those 50 that roam. Tennyson.
Death is the only physician, the shadow of his valley the only journeying that will cure us of age and the gathering fatigue of years. George Eliot.
Death is the quiet haven of us all. Wordsworth.
Death is the tyrant of the imagination. Barry Cornwall.
Death is the wish of some, the relief of many, and the end of all. Sen.
Death joins us to the great majority; / 'Tis to be borne to Platos and to Cæsars; / 'Tis to be great for ever; / 'Tis pleasure, 'tis ambition, then, to die. Young.
Death lays his icy hand on kings. Shirley.
Death levels all distinctions.
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost, / Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Rom. and Jul., iv. 5.