My mother!
I—
DUCHESS.
Trembling? Come, collect thyself. Go, cheer 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,
Of the o'erburthen'd soul—to sing to him,
Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong
Into her grave.