There is no death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.

Sleep... Oh! how I loathe those little slices of death...

He had decided to live forever or die in the attempt.

The pride of dying rich raises the loudest laugh in hell.

There is a Reaper whose name is Death, / And, with his sickle keen, / He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, / And the flowers that grow between.

In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes.