Ye armed men, knights templars, that sleep in the stone aisles of that old Temple church, where all is silent above, and where a deeper silence reigns below (not broken by the pealing organ), are ye not contented where ye lie? Or would you come out of your long homes to go to the Holy War? Or do ye complain that pain no longer visits you, that sickness has done its worst, that you have paid the last debt to nature, that you hear no more of the thickening phalanx of the foe, or your lady's waning love; and that while this ball of earth rolls its eternal round, no sound shall ever pierce through to disturb your lasting repose, fixed as the marble over your tombs, breathless as the grave that holds you!

--William Hazlitt, On the Fear of Death

I've been reading his essays, which are wonderfully lively. He was a bit of a curmudgeon ("The impertinence of admiration is scarcely more tolerable than the demonstrations of contempt."), but with a bright, clear tone to his writings. A perfect antidote to tedious Teutonic toxins.