_Countess._ Fie, lady niece! to throw yourself upon him, Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it, And so must be flung after him! For you, Duke Friedland's only child, I should have thought It had been more beseeming to have shewn yourself 5 More chary of your person. _Thekla._ And what mean you? _Countess._ I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten Who you are, and who he is. But perchance That never once occurred to you. _Thekla._ What then? _Countess._ That you're the daughter of the Prince-Duke Friedland. 10 _Thekla._ Well--and what farther? _Countess._ What? a pretty question! _Thekla._ He was born that which we have but become. He's of an ancient Lombard family, Son of a reigning princess. _Countess._ Are you dreaming? Talking in sleep? An excellent jest, forsooth! 15 We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him To honour with his hand the richest heiress In Europe. _Thekla._ That will not be necessary. _Countess._ Methinks 'twere well though not to run the hazard. _Thekla._ His father loves him, Count Octavio 20 Will interpose no difficulty---- _Countess._ His! His father! his! But yours, niece, what of yours? _Thekla._ Why I begin to think you fear his father, So anxiously you hide it from the man! His father, his, I mean. _Countess (looks at her)._ Niece, you are false. 25 _Thekla._ Are you then wounded? O, be friends with me! _Countess._ You hold your game for won already. Do not Triumph too soon!-- _Thekla._ Nay now, be friends with me. _Countess._ It is not yet so far gone. _Thekla._ I believe you. _Countess._ Did you suppose your father had laid out 30 His most important life in toils of war, Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss, Had banished slumber from his tent, devoted His noble head to care, and for this only, To make a happy pair of you? At length 35 To draw you from your convent, and conduct In easy triumph to your arms the man That chanc'd to please your eyes! All this, methinks, He might have purchased at a cheaper rate. _Thekla._ That which he did not plant for me might yet 40 Bear me fair fruitage of its own accord. And if my friendly and affectionate fate, Out of his fearful and enormous being, Will but prepare the joys of life for me--