Yet who desert them and abet their foes,
In forging shackles for your native land,
You--you it is, that deeply grieve and wound me.
I must constrain my heart, or I shall hate you.

RUDENZ.
Is not my country's welfare all my wish?
What seek I for her but to purchase peace
'Neath Austria's potent sceptre?

BERTHA.
Bondage, rather!
You would drive freedom from the last stronghold
That yet remains for her upon the earth.
The people know their own true interests better:
Their simple natures are not warped by show,
But round your head a tangling net is wound.

RUDENZ.
Bertha, you hate me--you despise me!

BERTHA.
Nay! And if I did, 'twere better for my peace.
But to see him despised and despicable,--
The man whom one might love.

RUDENZ.
Oh, Bertha! You
Show me the pinnacle of heavenly bliss,
Then, in a moment, hurl me to despair!