“Love that comes too late, like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, to the great sender turns a sour offence, crying, That’s good that’s gone. Our rash faults make trivial price of serious things we have, not knowing them until we know their grave: oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, destroy our friends, and after weep their dust: our own love waking cries to see what’s done, while shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.” – William Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well 5.3