Benvolio had never been in love, and he was certain that he was not now. When he compared the turmoil Rosaline provoked in him to Romeo’s sighing, poetical ardor, he found they had little in common. He felt no urge to write sonnets, nor to moan her name and weep. That was love. This was—irritating.
~Still Star-Crossed by: Melinda Taub
Remembered Deservedly 