Afterlife (n.) concerns men less than the present life: they think the smallest evil here more important than the greatest there.
Afterlife (n.) of every stupid clown who ever lived in Scythia or Guinea, alongside Agamemnon and Nero — can a scrutiny of nature support so strange a claim?
Afterlife (n.) is professed by all and believed by few: the vulgar are infidels in their hearts, as the prodigious security with which they face eternity shows.
Afterlife (n.) lies behind death, which stands between the eye and the prospect of futurity and throws a gloom on everything beyond it — so popular religion fills it with Cerberus, Furies and fire.
A Afterlife (n.) of infinite and eternal rewards should move us more than finite ones — but our attachment to present things and indifference to the remote and uncertain says otherwise.
A Afterlife (n.) fails to be believed not because it is far off but because it resembles nothing in this life — men still care fiercely what happens after death to their name, family and country.
Afterlife (n.) would make nature a barbarous deceit if it were real: confining all our concern and knowledge to this life while a scene of infinitely greater consequence awaits.