You ask if you shall send me books. My dear friend, I beseech you,
for the love of God, relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more to be
guided, agitated, heated. My heart ferments sufficiently of itself.
I want strains to lull me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer.
Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have
never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But
need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often endured
the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow to
immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I treat
my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy. Do not
mention this again: there are people who would censure me for it.