They say the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain.
One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.
When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession.
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.
I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God and death.
They say, the tongues of dying men Enforce attention, like deep harmony; Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain; For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.