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Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under Fortune's false lottery, desperately run To death, for dread of death; that soul's most stout, That, bearing all mischance, dares last it out.

The common damn'd shun their society.

But if there be an hereafter, And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man, Then must it be an awful thing to die; More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.

Our time is fixed, and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not:--this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission.

The beasts had committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter.

Fool! I mean not That poor-souled piece of heroism, self-slaughter; Oh no! the miserablest day we live There's many a better thing to do than die!

If suicide be supposed a crime, it is only cowardice can impel us to it. If it be no crime, both prudence and courage should engage us to rid ourselves at once of existence when it becomes a burden. It is the only way that we can then be useful to society, by setting an example which, if imitated, would preserve every one his chance for happiness in life, and would effectually free him from all danger or misery.

While foulest fiends shun thy society.

Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep, All things within its bosom sleep! A single step, and all is o'er, A plunge, a bubble, and no more.

When Fannius from his foe did fly Himself with his own hands he slew; Who e'er a greater madness knew? Life to destroy for fear to die.

He That kills himself to avoid misery, fears it, And, at the best, shows but a bastard valour. This life's a fort committed to my trust, Which I must not yield up, till it be forced: Nor will I. He's not valiant that dares die, But he that boldly bears calamity.

If you like not hanging, drown yourself; Take some course for your reputation.

Bravest at the last, She levelled at our purposes, and being royal, Took her own way.

Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?

And the more pity that great folk should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen.

Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death.

You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please.

There is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession.

Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . . . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.