VALENTINE   To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans,

Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment’s mirth

With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights.

If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;

If lost, why then a grievous labour won;

However, but a folly bought with wit,

Or else a wit by folly vanquishèd. (1.1.29-35)

It boots you not, says Valentine to Proteus, it’s not doing you any good, being in love, where scorn is bought with groans; the more you declare yourself to your beloved, protest the depth of your emotions, the more she’ll treat you dismissively, even mock you. If you give her heart-sore sighs, expressive exhalations dredged out of your very guts—well, you might get the odd coy look, a come-hither glance, down-cast eyes, fluttering lashes—but one fading moment’s mirth, the least sign of favour from her or even a brief experience of pleasure or joy in her presence—that’ll be out-weighed by twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights, as you lie awake thinking about her, agonising, trying to work out if she feels the same way. Girls! It’s all out of proportion! It’s not worth the effort! If you’re lucky enough to get anything out of her, if haply won, it might still end up all coming to nothing, or even turning out badly, a hapless gain, and if lost, if you get nowhere, then all you’ve won is your own grievous labour, your own suffering. However, whatever, either way, love can only be a folly bought with wit, a delusion for which you give your own reason in exchange, your own common sense; you’ve checked in your brain!—or else a wit by folly vanquished, reason completely overcome by madness.

Dude, it’s not worth it. You’re just making an idiot of yourself.