I once knew a sad boy who wrote down these words and gave it for me to read. He writes:
.... I am not hers but very jealous when she gives attention to other guys. I exclaimed in my soul, O she likes them very much and they like her very much. They shall soon be joined in happy matrimony and we shall not attend. We shall find a good reason to exclude ourselves and busy our bruised fancy with something of a similar kind. But O there is nothing similar to her, nothing at all. What shall be our comfort? Perhaps we are better off to wallow in our misfortune and caress our loss. But there’s no virtue in pity of this kind, none of it at all.