Sir Bernard,
I owe your daughter all the breath I breathe.
She found me at the gasp of death; she brought me
Of her sweet pity hither, healed my wound,
And more; for when black clouds were on my mind
She let the morning shine full into it;
I felt her like the sky, the morning dew.
If—if there be some fondness, some young spring
Of fondness in her heart, Time soon amends
Such wounds. She is a child. If this be gone