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Fool! I mean not
That poor-souled piece of heroism, self-slaughter;
Oh no! the miserablest day we live
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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!
Suicide is man's way of telling God, "You can't fire me - I quit."
Suicide is man's way of telling God, "You can't fire me - I quit."
Ah, yes, the sea is still and deep,
All things within its bosom sleep!
A single step, read more
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.
Anyone desperate enough for suicide...should be desperate enough to go to creative extremes to solve problems: elope at midnight, stow read more
Anyone desperate enough for suicide...should be desperate enough to go to creative extremes to solve problems: elope at midnight, stow away on the boat to New Zealand and start over, do what they always wanted to do but were afraid to try.
When Fannius from his foe did fly
Himself with his own hands he slew;
Who e'er a read 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.
Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life
Cuts off so many years of fearing death.
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 read more
You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me;
Let not my worser spirit tempt me again
To die before you please.
Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight,
On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . . .
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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.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
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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?