Though were there ever father, who could well
Have left that charge to others, it was you,
Your daughters so religiously brought up
In convent with their aunt at Alcalá.
Well, you are come, and God be praised for it!
And, at your bidding, here are they, and I,
And good old Mari Nuño—all come up
To meet you at Madrid. I could not wait
The coach’s slower pace, but must spur on
To kiss my old master’s hand.