Shakespeare’s Powerful Quotes about Death

To be, or not to be: that is the question.

Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.

The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns.

There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.

Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

Goodnight, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.

To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end.

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more.

The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, which hurts and is desired.

Death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law.

Death, having preyed upon the outward parts, Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies.

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts.

Shakespeare’s Powerful Quotes about Death part 2

The valiant never taste of death but once.

Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.

Better a thousand times to die than wound my honour.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

The rest is silence.

Life every man holds dear; but the dear man Holds honor far more precious dear than life.

Sleep, perchance to dream.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end.

The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, which hurts and is desired.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on.

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And asleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must be heard of, say, I taught thee.

Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty!

When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

Death is a fearful thing.

Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

Thou art too noble to conserve a life In base appliances.

All our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats; For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind.

Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night.

For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die.

Before I draw my sword, bow down thy head, and hear me speak.

To die by virtue is to live.

Death hath so many doors to let out life.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never.

The eyes, windows of the soul, betray thy body; He that for love would see, hath been partaker Of thy malady.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

To die, to sleep – To sleep, perchance to dream.

Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.