He flew with you than one can think and then let fall,
Ye must be sore hurt.
EMMA
I count it nought at all
This pain, mine eme; though remedy be none.
More by ten thousand times I would not shun
Than all that pens could write for anything,
If only to me God’s mercy would cling.
I care not what befalls if but one day
Comfort and mercy may be mine.