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What, is the jay more precious than the lark Because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eel Because his painted skin contents the eye?

So full of artless jealousy is guilt It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

I do beseech you-- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess , that your wisdom yet From one that so imperfectly conjects Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance.

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts--suspects, yet strongly loves!

Trifles light as air Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ.

But jealous souls will not be answered so; They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.

If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.

Never waste jealousy on a real man: it is the imaginary man that supplants us all in the long run.

O! beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

The venom clamours of a jealous woman poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is!

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.

I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? A dry jest, sir. Are you full of them? Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends. Marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

I see, the jewel best enamelled Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still That others touch, and often touching will Wear gold; and no man that hath a name, By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.

'Tis plate of rare device and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great, And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in sale stowage.

Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith.

A woman that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watched that it may still go right!

For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.