Countess. Not yet.
Wallenstein. Come here, my sweet girl! Seat thee by me,
For there is a good spirit on thy lips.
Thy mother praised to me thy ready skill: [45]
She says a voice of melody dwells in thee,
Which doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice
Will drive away from me the evil demon
That beats his black wings close above my head.
Duchess. Where is thy lute, my daughter? Let thy father 50
Hear some small trial of thy skill.
Thekla. My mother!
I—
Duchess. Trembling? Come, collect thyself. Go, cheer
Thy father.
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, [55]
Of the o'erburthen'd soul—to sing to him,
Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong
Into her grave!
Duchess. How, Thekla? Humoursome?
What! shall thy father have expressed a wish
In vain?