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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

The beasts (Conservatives) had committed suicide to save
themselves from slaughter.

The beasts (Conservatives) had committed suicide to save
themselves from slaughter.

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?