Love is a madness, having heaven's wisdom in it--a spark.

But even when it is driving us on the breakers, call it love: and be not unworthy of it, hold to it.

She and Victor had drunk of a cup.

The philtre was in her veins, whatever the directions of the rational mind.
Exulting or regretting, she had to do it, as one in the car with a racing charioteer.

Or up beside a more than Titanically audacious balloonist.