between the rock and the cold, cold sea

Cassius:

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

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Thesis progress: unutterably slow.

Lenior ieiunio mors est, cruditate dissiliunt. - Seneca, On Providence, 10.

(Death from starving is gentle, gorged men burst apart.)