The end is in partaking. It is not one or the other, but both. All must be over. But, the love lives on. It must never die. Shakespeare did  not compose love for it to die. He wrote so that we, the humble but weak, could  learn. And as we learn, we grow a passion in our hearts. This passion grows. It grows like an infant. At first so meek, not aware of how much damage he or she will do to another’s character. The matter is, we are fragile.  Our hearts eat themselves raw everyday. Broken down from another, we crawl, just as the infant.