Death to a good man is but passing through a dark entry, out of one little dusky room of his Father's house into another that is fair and large, lightsome and glorious, and divinely entertaining.
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!
Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us; our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life.
We are all compelled to take the same road; from the urn of death, shaken for all, sooner or later the lot must come forth.
[Lat., Omnes eodem cogimur; omnium
Versatur urna serius, ocius
Sors exitura.]