Quotes About Struggle

But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and none

Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now (70) I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime

But I am bound upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears do scald like moulten lead.

Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:

Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding.

The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.

And with a little pin bores through his castle wall and farewell king.

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like moulten lead.

Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

Then I defy you, stars!

i buy a thousand pound a year! i buy a rope!

upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, till famine cling thee.

Patience perforce with willful choler meeting/Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting./I will withdraw, but this intrusion shall,/Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall.

Humanity must perforce prey upon itself, like monsters of the deep.

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap,            For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires, Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

Age, thou hast lost thy labor.

Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth;

Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius.

Throw my heart Against the flint and hardness of my fault: Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder, And finish all foul thoughts.

what Shakespeare really aimed to show: the destruction of a soul by demonic forces.

Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones: I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale; a' plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful:

Of France and England, did this king succeed; Whose state so many had the managing. That they lost France and made his England bleed.

Tell me, sweet lord, what is 't that takes from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep? Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth And start so often when thou sit'st alone? Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks And given my treasures and my rights of thee To thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?