Well Of All Things In The World,

When Young People Are Too Rigidly Sequestered From [the World], Their Lively And Romantic Imaginations Paint It To Them As A Paradise Of Which They Have Been Beguiled; But When They Are Shown It Properly, And In Due Time, They See It Such As It Really Is, Equally Shared By Pain And Pleasure, Hope And Disappointment.

To Nobody, Then, Will I Write My Journal! Since To Nobody Can I Be Wholly Unreserved, To Nobody Can I Reveal Every Thought, Every Wish Of My Heart, With The Most Unlimited Confidence, The Most Unremitting Sincerity, To The End Of My Life!

I Am Tired To Death! Tired Of Every Thing! I Would Give The Universe For A Disposition Less Difficult To Please. Yet, After All, What Is There To Give Pleasure? When One Has Seen One Thing, One Has Seen Every Thing.

The Mind Naturally Accommodates Itself, Even To The Most Ridiculous Improprieties, If They Occur Frequently.

Imagination Took The Reins, And Reason, Slow-paced, Though Sure-footed, Was Unequal To A Race With So Eccentric And Flighty A Companion.