Love....

Love is the blackest of all plagues, and if one could die of it, there would be some pleasure in love.
But you almost always get over it.
There are only a couple of poor wretches who die of love once in a while.
Love is as contagious as a cold in the nose.
It eats away at your strength, your independence, your morale, if you have any.
If everything is imperfect in this imperfect world, love is most perfect in its perfect imperfection.