I stand in awe of my brother.  No, I fear nobody’s anger.  I am proof against all violence; but when people haunt me with reasoning and entreaties, when they look sadly and pretend kindness, when they beg upon that score, ’tis a strange pain to me to deny.  When he rants and renounces me, I can despise him; but when he asks my pardon, with tears pleads to me the long and constant friendship between us, and calls heaven to witness that nothing upon earth is dear to him in comparison of me, then, I confess, I feel a stronger unquietness within me, and I would do anything to evade his importunity.  Nothing is so great a violence to me as that which moves my compassion.  I can resist with ease any sort of people but beggars.  If this be a fault in me, ’tis at least a well-natured one; and therefore I hope you will forgive it me, you that can forgive me anything, you say, and be displeased with nothing whilst I love you; may I never be pleased with anything when I do not.  Yet I could beat you for writing this last strange letter; was there ever anything said like?  If I had but a vanity that the world should admire me, I would not care what they talked of me.  In earnest, I believe there is nobody displeased that people speak well of them, and reputation is esteemed by all of much greater value than life itself.  Yet let me tell you soberly, that with all my vanity I could be very well contented nobody should blame me or any action of mine, to quit all my part of the praises and admiration of the world; and if I might be allowed to choose, my happiest part of it should consist in concealment, there should not be above two persons in the world know that there was such a one in it as your faithful.

Stay!  I have not done yet.  Here’s another good side, I find; here, then, I’ll tell you that I am not angry for all this.  No, I allow it to your ill-humour, and that to the crosses that have been common to us; but now that is cleared up, I should expect you should say finer things to me.  Yet take heed of being like my neighbour’s servant, he is so transported to find no rubs in his way that he knows not whether he stands on his head or his feet.  ’Tis the most troublesome, busy talking little thing that ever was born; his tongue goes like the clack of a mill, but to much less purpose, though if it were all oracle, my head would ache to hear that perpetual noise.  I admire at her patience and her resolution that can laugh at his fooleries and love his fortune.  You would wonder to see how tired she is with his impertinences, and yet how pleased to think she shall have a great estate with him.  But this is the world, and she makes a part of it betimes.  Two or three great glistening jewels have bribed her to wink at all his faults, and she hears him as unmoved and unconcerned as if another were to marry him.

What think you, have I not done fair for once, would you wish a longer letter?  See how kind I grow at parting; who would not go into Ireland to have such another?  In earnest now, go as soon as you can, ’twill be the better, I think, who am your faithful friend.