hakespeare on

                                             uicide

 

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep.
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die: to sleep.
To sleep? perchance to dream. Ay there's the rub
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of dispriz'd 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 would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to other that we know not of?
This conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought
Ande enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action...
(Hamlet, Act III, Scene I)

 

 

O that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How wearly, stale, flat and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world.
Fie on 't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Posess it merely. That it should come to this!
(Hamlet, Act I, Scene II)

 


O heat, dry up my brain! tears seven times salt,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid with weight;
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
O heavens! is 't possible a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
(Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.)
(Hamlet, Act IV, Scene IV)