think of it lightly, as an easy and deliberate thing. You don't mean love. You mean a trivial, feathery visiting, that does not know what love is. There he is—listen.
- (The voice below becomes articulate as the song ends)
Mary the lover be my tale
For the wise men to tell
When Moray joins Elizabeth
And Lethington in hell.
Not Riccio nor Damley knew
Nor Bothwell how to find
This Mary's best magnificence
Of the great lover's mind.
Hunter: It's a damned silly song. What's it all about? A dog singing, and a fool joining in, and you chattering against all sense.
- (He moves back to the table)
Boyd: You are emphatic—the emphasis that knows it is misplaced. (He goes again to the portrait.) Look at this queen. She tells you, doesn't she? Doesn't she?
Hunter: What does a dead queen know about
