Symptoms of jealousy: fear, sorrow, suspicion, strange actions, gestures, outrages, confinement, oaths, trials, laws, and so on.

Of all passions, as I have already shown, love is the most violent; and of the bitter potions that this love-melancholy supplies, its bastard offspring jealousy is the strongest, as appears from the extraordinary symptoms it has and produces. Besides fear and sorrow, which are common to all melancholy, anxiety of mind, suspicion, exaggeration, restless thoughts, paleness, wasting, neglect of business and the like, these people are afflicted still further, and to a greater degree.

It is a more vehement passion, a more furious disturbance, a bitter pain, a fire, a destructive inquisitiveness, gall spoiling the honey of our life, madness, dizziness, plague, hell. They are troubled beyond the ordinary measure; they lose “the blessing of peace,” as Chrysostom observes. Although they are rich, dine sumptuously and have noble family connections, “they are the most miserable of all”: they are utterly miserable, more than ordinarily discontented, sadder—“nothing is sadder”—and more than ordinarily suspicious.

Jealousy, says Vives, “breeds unrest in the mind, night and day: he hunts after every word he hears, every whisper, and magnifies it to himself”—as all melancholy people do in other matters—“with the most unjust accusations against others. He misinterprets everything said or done, all too ready to misunderstand or misconstrue.” He pries into every corner, follows closely, observes to a hair’s breadth. It is characteristic of jealousy to act so,

Pale hag, infernal fury, pleasure’s torment, Envy’s watcher, prying everywhere.

Besides those strange gestures: staring, frowning, grimacing, rolling the eyes, threatening, ghastly looks, an uneven gait, interrupted, hasty half-turns. Sometimes he will sigh, weep and sob with anger,

Indeed, even these thunderclaps pour down their showers,

swear and tell lies about people, slander anyone, curse, threaten, brawl, scold and fight. At other times he will flatter her and speak kindly, ask forgiveness, kiss and embrace her, condemn his rashness and folly, vow, protest and swear that he will never do so again. Then, soon afterwards, unable to restrain himself, he will rave, roar and strike out like a madman, punch her in the sides, perhaps drag her about, drive her out of doors and send her home. He will have a divorce at once; she is a whore, and so on.

Before long he treats her kindly with every submissive compliment and brings her in again. He loves her dearly; she is his sweet, kindest, most loving wife; he would not exchange her or leave her for a kingdom. So he goes on, back and forth, as the whim takes him or something stirs him; but for the most part he is quarrelsome, fretful and restless, accusing and suspecting not only strangers but brothers and sisters, father and mother, his nearest and dearest friends. He thinks with those Italians,

Who does not touch his kin Touches never, or rarely.

Through fear he imagines things almost incredible and impossible to accomplish. Like a heron fishing, always peering in every direction, or a cat watching a mouse, he never takes his eyes off her. He stares at him, at her, observing precisely whom she looks at, who looks at her, what she says and does. At dinner, at supper, sitting, walking, at home or abroad, he is the same: always questioning, wandering about, gazing, listening, frightened by every little thing. Why did she smile? Why did she pity him, praise him? Why did she drink twice to that man? Why did she offer to kiss, to dance, and so on? A whore, a whore, an utter whore. He confesses all this in the poet’s words,

Everything frightens me; I am afraid: forgive my fear. Wretched that I am, I suspect a man beneath a woman’s tunic. It hurts me if your mother gives you many kisses, Your sister too, and the female friend who sleeps beside you.

Everything frightens me; I am afraid. Ah, pardon my fear: I suspect a man is hidden in The clothes that you wear.

Is that not a man in women’s clothing? Is someone not hiding in that great chest, behind the door or the hangings, or in one of those barrels? Might a man not creep in through the window by a rope ladder, come down the chimney, have a false key, or get in while he is asleep? If a mouse so much as stirs, the wind blows or a window rattles, that is the villain: there he is! If he had his way, no man would see her, greet her or speak to her; she would never leave his sight, even to relieve herself.

“Argus did not guard his cow so,” and so on. Argus did not guard his cow, nor that watchful dragon the Golden Fleece, nor Cerberus the entrance to hell, as he guards his wife. If a dear friend or close relative comes as a guest to visit him, he never lets the man out of his sight or company, lest perhaps—and so on.

If his business requires him to leave home, he either locks her up or entrusts her to reliable friends with a mass of instructions and solemn declarations. He appoints and bribes this man and that woman to keep watch; during his absence one servant is set to watch another, and all of them to watch his wife. Yet none of this is enough. However urgent his business, halfway there he will return at full speed, rise from supper or leave at midnight, sometimes abandon his business altogether, and court his own wife as a stranger, wearing a disguise.

Although there is no danger at all, no cause for suspicion, and she lives somewhere even Messalina herself could not be unfaithful if she wished, he suspects her as much as if she were in a brothel, some prince’s court or a public inn, where anyone might have free access. Suddenly he calls her every foul name: a strumpet, a wanton housewife, a bitch, an utter whore. No persuasion or solemn assurance can turn aside this passion; nothing can ease him, reassure him or satisfy him.

It is astonishing to relate what outrages men and women have committed in this way, especially women, who will run after their husbands into every place and company. So Jovianus Pontanus’s wife followed him wherever he went, regardless of the place or his business, raging like Juno in the tragedy, calling names, cursing, swearing and mistrusting everyone she saw.