Countess (returns), Thekla.
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.