Your beauty is a thief that steals the breath from my lungs; a tryant who commands the motion of my eyes; like a fire loosed in a dry wood, or salt rubbed into a soldier's wound: your form is both the torment and the prize. How can I call it good when all pain and heartache are its proof and sign? Yet somehow, that fire and salt have a sugar's taste; that thirst and burning, a savor like scented wine. Love is indeed the true insanity! When all else is reduced to shambles, and the lover's heart, a place of ruin, he begs only for more of the same: a last glance, a parting word, the chance meeting of a pair of eyes... Ruin me! End me! Destroy this fool some more! The mention of your beauty alone undoes me; and that undoing binds me again, and chains this Sisyphus to his poetic demise.