Sonnet 141, by NY Shakespeare Exchange

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
     Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
     That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

Sonnet 141, from The Sonnet Project, by the New York Shakespeare Exchange.

I wondered if Carlo Alban, as the tortured lover, would jump from that hill.  No, that would've been out-of-keeping with the sonnet.  The point is Romantic pain, and for it to be Romantic, it must keep on.  It must live.