But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.

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.

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.

Knowledge slowly builds up what Ignorance in an hour pulls down.