There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire; it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.
One of the tortures of jealousy is, that it can never turn away its eyes from the thing that pains it.
Jealousy is never satisfied with anything short of an omniscience that would detect the subtlest fold of the heart.
Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.