Jealousy (n.) makes a man of esprit comic: imagine Socrates, finding Xanthippe in flagrante, running onstage shouting "Where is she, that I may murder her!" — she would have power over him the whole Greek state lacked: to make him ridiculous.
Jealousy (n.) is, when a noble love is betrayed, a justifiable indignation — love's ethical sorrow over a deceased one, the last honors the soul pays to her who had the power to offend it.
Jealousy (n.) follows when immediate love — like fermentation that has not yet separated out the poison furnishing its heat — sets itself on fire with that poison.
Jealousy (n.) is, by its very name, a desire to be sick: the Danish Iversyge is literally desire-sickness.
Jealousy (n.) catches every ray of the beloved's love and focuses it through its burning glass upon its own love — and is slowly consumed.
Jealousy (n.) loves only as it is loved; it dares neither believe absolutely nor give itself absolutely, lest it give too much — and so burns itself on what is not hot.
Jealousy (n.) watches its object with a hundred eyes, while simple love has a single eye — but is dispersion stronger than unity?
Jealousy (n.) is always present in earthly love and friendship: interpose the neighbor between lover and beloved as one who must also be loved, and you will see it instantly.
Jealousy (n.) can be on behalf of one's own grief — guarding it from others' sympathy as one might guard a lover.
Jealousy (n.) can guard one's own sorrow: the aesthete heals others' grief so he can say to himself, 'But my sorrow no one can heal.'
Jealousy (n.) enslaves a cowardly husband to the beauty he rules, until age takes the beauty and he ends in a dastard's ingratitude.