"Our father has forgot much of love," says Laertes, and presses her hands. "He was mad with love for her, in their rosy youth; he sickened with it, and could neither eat nor sleep, and raved or muttered to himself by turns--in all things most distract. What man so deeply pierced by Cupid's arrow could bear his lover's death? An he counseled thee that love was empty, a mere bauble to cast like a die on the hazard of advancement, it was to protect thee from suffering as he did ... or because his grief turns all thought of love to ashes in his breast."