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Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand.
Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand.
But if there be an hereafter,
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd
And suffer'd to speak out, read more
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.
The common damn'd shun their society.
The common damn'd shun their society.
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.
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.
Our time is fixed, and all our days are number'd;
How long, how short, we know not:--this we know,
read more
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 (Conservatives) had committed suicide to save
themselves from slaughter.
The beasts (Conservatives) had committed suicide to save
themselves from slaughter.
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.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
read more
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?
