Wracked.

Why, such is love’s transgression.

Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,

Which thou wilt propagate, to have it pressed

With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown

Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;

Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;

Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.

What is it else? A madness most discreet,

A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

-Romeo and Juliet