Horace Quotes

One night awaits all, and death's path must be trodden once and for all.

Death was not to be a leap: it was to be a long descent under thickening shadows.

Build then the ship of death, for you must take the longest journey, to oblivion.

Death's dark way Must needs be trodden once, however we pause.

Sooner or later a black car came for everyone.

Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate death.

I mean, whatever kills you kills you, and your death is authentic no matter how you die.

Whatever we try - to be rich, to be happy - death is unavoidable. It doesn't matter how much money you have; it doesn't matter how much love you have. At the end of the day, it's all heading that way.

Death, which we are accustomed to consider an evil, really acts for us the friendliest part, and takes away the commonplace of existence.

In the end, death came uniformly to all, and all extracted as much satisfaction from their dying as this essentially graceless process could afford.

Death haunts everyone and never fails.

Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.

There is nothing like death to say what is always such an artificial thing to say: The End.

Death comes to us, under many conditions, with all the welcome serenity of sleep.

Isn't death the boundary we need?

Death may whiten in sun or out of it.

Death is the ultimate negative.

To most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep.

Pity that the only way to paradise is in a hearse.

Nothing in life is sure, my son. Except the promise of death.

One can become quite used to the specter of the eternal Footman, like some lethal old bore lurking in the hallway at the end of the evening, hoping for the chance to have a word. And I don't so much object to his holding my coat in that marked manner, as if mutely reminding me that it's time to be on my way. No, it's the snickering that gets me down.

Nothing can happen more than once, but everything must happen one day; Over hill and dale, wood and stream, my dying voice will blow away. . .

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Death is like a fisherman, who, having caught a fish in his net, leaves it in the water for a time; the fish continues to swim about, but all the while the net is round it, and the fisherman will snatch it out in his own good time.