Jealousy is just love and hate at the same time.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt,It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mockThe meat it feeds on.
Nature is at work. Character and destiny are her handiwork. She gives us love and hate, jealousy and reverence. All that is ours is the power to choose which impulse we shall follow.
That is ever the way. Tis all jealousy to the bride and good wishes to the corpse.
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.
Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out of their neighbor's buzzing glory, and think that such killing is no murder.
But I like not these great success of yours for I know how jealous are the gods.
Man will do many things to get himself loved; he will do all things to get himself envied.
Jealousy is indeed a poor medium to secure love, but it is a secure medium to destroy one
For jealousy arouses a husband
On the same line of reasoning, if Australians were to be Australians, or rather if Australians were as separate from any other nation as Australia from any other land, there would be no jealousy between them on England's account.
It is not enough to succeed, others must fail.
His scorn of the great is repeated too often to be real; no man thinks much of that which he despises.
The jealousy and resentment that animate the terrorists also affect many of our former cold war allies.
Lovers may be - and indeed generally are - enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
I like jealous men. I love jealousy. I do.
What sort of love is permeated by jealousy? You are jealous because you are unaware that everything you need is inside you.
I would rather drudge out my life on a cotton plantation, till the grave opened to give me rest, than to live with an unprincipled master and a jealous mistress.
The life of a plural wife, she'd found, was a life lived under constant comparison, a life spent wondering. Sitting across from her sister-wives at Sunday dinner, the platters and serving dishes floating past like hovercraft, the questions were almost inescapable; Who of us is the most happy? Which of us is his one true love? Who does he desire the most?
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