This cursed jealousy, what is't?
'T is love that has lost itself in a mist;
'T is love being frighted out of his wits;
'T is love that has a fever got;
Love that is violently hot,
But troubled with cold and trembling fits.
'T is yet a more unnatural evil:
'T is the god of love, 't is the god of love, possessed with a devil.
'T is rich corrupted wine of love,
Which sharpest vinegar does prove;
From all the sweet flowers which might honey make,
It does a deadly poison bring:
Strange serpent which itself doth sting!
It never can sleep, and dreams still awake;
It stuffs up the marriage-bed with thorns.
It gores itself, it gores itself, with imagined horns.
Chart showing the number of references in each month of the diary’s entries.