Or, Henry, I 'll not wrong you—you believe
That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve o'er
The past! We 'll love on; you will love me still!
Mer. Oh, to love less what one has injured! Dove,
Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my breast—
Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength?
Flower I have crushed, shall I not care for thee?
Bloom o'er my crest, my fight-mark and device!
Mildred, I love you and you love me!
Mil. Go!