What is it but love,
but the one that guides the careful hand of deceitful cruelty into a hapy, innocent life?
What is it but love,
that keeps a free woman from her happiness, in such a manner that she can at no means get it back?
What cruel injustice is love,
that with a single glance annhialates even the best-laid plans, so that even the cleverest men fall ill by it?
What sore temtress is love,
to lead a man down a dangerous path, to rid him of his name, his honour, for something that will never be gained?
Yet we seem all too happy to ignore the underside of this complex net that we see as a beautiful tapestry, the underside which holds the fear and horror and angst drilled into the hearts of men and women. We are too happy to ignore that the tapestry at which we stare, and immerse ourselves in willingly, will ensnare us in its pink-tinged nets, and capture us, forever.