Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T51: esau, iacob, father, son, isaac, god, love, birthright, parents, thing.
Thy Character of me, loved Spinola, Thus far I may without vain glory own, Truly to love my friend, yet hate no man, And since mine own experience finds how well Thou dost the one, I would persuade the other; Nor would I now convert thee to a Stoic, To make thee think there are no injuries, Or if there be, that wise men cannot feel ''em, These, I confess, are not compatible With thy condition; on th'other side, I can encourage none, much less my friend To take a scandal, when there is none given, To call that injury, which is in truth A liberty that every man may challenge; Or if Imperial ought t' have waved the same, Yet since the will is free, thou couldst expect But Fatherly persuasion, to incline Th' affections of his daughter, all the rest Is ravishment, or tyranny at best. I know not how the rigid schools define A father's power, in their begged principles, As if the freedom of the will extended To silly wenches, to restrain the power Of them that gave them first and second being; No, it was only his inveterate malice That closely lurked under a new feigned friendship That stuck on me and mine this contumely, Which ought to be resented far above An injury, by any generous spirit; Let it be what thy fancy apprehends, Which scarce appears in the least circumstance, Yet generous spirits at poor contumelies, As seldom stoop as Eagles do to Flies. What is there that should wound an active spirit, Like base contempt? The guilt of one base act. Should we not then be jealous of our fame? If we within find cause of jealousy. Reports may brand, although they be untrue. Yes, those that take their honour upon trust. Our honour by opinion must subsist, Then every puff of wind will scatter it. How can we call that ours, which must depend On the rash will, and vainer voice of others? But herein thou most slight'st thyself to doubt Thou canst be undervalued by any, Much more contemned by him that dares not think Himself to be the worthier, but that thou Suggests it for him, in thy vain suspicion: They that believe themselves despised, confess An inward doubt of their own worthiness. I am not for my part ambitious Of the dull fame of stupid patience, To be admired for wanting common sense, Like Cato, that could let one spit in's face, And when he should have wiped off the disgrace With his sharp Sword, he did it with a jest And his soft handkerchief: This was that spirit Thou lift'st above great Alexander's merit.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Thy Character of me, lov'd Spinola, Thus farre I may without vaine glory owne, Truely to love my friend, yet hate no man, And ſince mine own experience finds how well Thou do'ſt the one, I would perſwade the other; Nor would I now convert thee to a Stoicke, To make thee thinke there are no injuries, Or if there be, that wiſe men cannot feele'm, Theſe, I confeſſe, are not compatible With thy condition; on th'other ſide, I can encourage none, much leſſe my friend To take a ſcandall, when there is none given, To call that injury, which is in truth A liberty that every man may challenge; Or if Imperial ought t' have wav'd the ſame, Yet ſince the will is free, thou could'ſt expect But Fatherly perſwaſion, to incline Th' affections of his daughter, all the reſt Is raviſhment, or tyranny at beſt. I know not how the rigid ſchooles define A fathers power, in their beg'd principles, As if the freedome of the will extended To ſilly wenches, to reſtraine the power Of them that gave them firſt and ſecond being; No, it was onely his inveterate malice That cloſely lurk't under a new fein'd freindſhip That ſtuck on me and mine this contumely, Which ought to be reſented farre above An injury, by any generous ſpirit; Let it be what thy fancy apprehends, Which ſcarce appeares in the leaſt circumſtance, Yet generous ſpirits at poore contumelies, As ſeldome ſtoope as Eagles doe to Flyes. What is there that ſhould wound an active ſpirit, Like baſe contempt? The guilt of one baſe act. Should we not then be jealous of our fame? If we within finde cauſe of jealouſie. Reports may brand, although they be untrue. Yes, thoſe that take their honour upon truſt. Our honour by opinion muſt ſubſiſt, Then every puffe of winde will ſcatter it. How can we call that ours, which muſt depend On the raſh will, and vainer voyce of others? But herein thou moſt ſlightſt thy ſelfe to doubt Thou canſt be undervalued by any, Much more contemn'd by him that dares not thinke Himſelfe to be the worthier, but that thou Suggeſts it for him, in thy vaine ſuſpition: They that beleeve themſelves deſpis'd, confeſſe An inward doubt of their owne worthineſſe. I am not for my part ambitious Of the dull fame of ſtupid patience, To be admir'd for wanting common ſenſe, Like Cato, that could let one ſpit in's face, And when he ſhould have wip'd off the diſgrace With his ſharpe Sword, he did it with a Ieſt And his ſoft handcarcheife: This was that ſpirit Thou lift'ſt above great Alexanders merit.