On mine the sharpest thorn goes bent and blunt;
Yours twitches as a gyve were smithied round it.
Child, have no fear! I do not grip you thus
Because I wish to stay you. The King knows
I grasp not merely his express word’s meaning,
I’m quick as well i’ the uptake of his hint.
He saw with pain that Nature has for you
So much achieved, and naught that hussy Luck;
He bids me succour you and fill Luck’s office.
I do so (releasing her) and herewith declare you free!