Despair is part of love.
And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.
Love lost is a special kind of failure, I think. It's a reminder that some consummations, no matter how devoutly wished for, never come; that some apes will never be men, not in all the world's ages.
Sadness of love without release.
This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.
All love's pleasure shall not match its woe.
Much ado there was, God wot; He woold love, and she woold not, She sayd, "Never man was trewe;" He sayes, "None was false to you."
