Suicide / Death:

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy aspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief,
That can denote me truly.  These indeed seem,
For they are actions that a man may play;
But I have that within which passes show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe. (Hamlet)

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 sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished . . . (Hamlet)

Lay her in the earth,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring.  I tell thee, churlish priest,
A minist'ring angel shall my sister be
When thou liest howling. (Laertes)