THEKLA.
O my mother! I--I cannot.

COUNTESS.
How, what is that, niece?

THEKLA (to the COUNTESS).
O spare me--sing--now--in this sore anxiety,
Of the overburdened soul--to sing to him
Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong
Into her grave.

DUCHESS.
How, Thekla! Humorsome!
What! shall thy father have expressed a wish
In vain?

COUNTESS.
Here is the lute.

THEKLA.
My God! how can I----

[The orchestra plays. During the ritornello THEKLA expresses in her
gestures and countenance the struggle of her feelings; and at the
moment that she should begin to sing, contracts herself together, as
one shuddering, throws the instrument down, and retires abruptly.

DUCHESS.
My child! Oh, she is ill----