"The glories of our blood and state, Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate, Death lays his icy hand on kings. Scepter and crown must tumble down, And, in the dust, be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade"
"Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there's a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see"
