Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

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

Our time is fixed, and all our days are number'd;
How long, how short, we know not:--this we know,
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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.

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.

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.

Life is like a movie, if you've sat through more than half of it and its sucked every second so read more

Life is like a movie, if you've sat through more than half of it and its sucked every second so far, it probably isn't gonna get great right at the end and make it all worthwhile. None should blame you for walking out early.

And the more pity that great folk should have count'nance in this
world to drown or hang themselves more read more

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

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?

Who doubting tyranny, and fainting under
Fortune's false lottery, desperately run
To death, for dread of death; read more

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.