Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand.

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

Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death.

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

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

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.