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

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

You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or read more

You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be.

Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but not always; for cowardice sometimes prevents it; since as many live because they are read more

Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but not always; for cowardice sometimes prevents it; since as many live because they are afraid to die, as die because they are afraid to live

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.

Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight,
On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . . .
read more

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.

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

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

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!

Not many artists commit suicide by leaping off the pinnacle of success.

Not many artists commit suicide by leaping off the pinnacle of success.

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?