Love (n.) is not friendship: a friend loves you, but one who loves you is not always your friend; friendship always helps, love sometimes harms.
Love (n.) needs no potion, drug or spell: if you wish to be loved, love.
Love (n.) has no sweeter reward than being so dear to your wife that it makes you dearer to yourself.
Love (n.) at its sweetest makes you more valuable to yourself: what is sweeter than to be so prized by your wife that you grow dearer to yourself for it?
Love (n.) grows again more easily than anything, so whoever would be rid of an old love must avoid every reminder of the person once held dear.
Love (n.) is better replaced than wept for: having buried the one you love, go and find someone to love.
Love (n.) is our story told as Medea's: no one who loves can guarantee they will stop short of murder.
Love (n.) is a hole in the self, through which the world will almost certainly strike a crippling blow.
Love (n.) is what rages and kills, not anger: anger is only the spark; the fire is love blocked by fortune.