—that should be good counsel for all foolish lovers, I think. I know love, that at least. Beaton, the intrigues of Europe will destroy me—no, they will. But I know love. If it could be a light to all such poor boys! Where is Riccio?
Beaton: Shall I find him?
Mary: No, I asked incuriously.
Beaton: He grows more daring.
Mary: He sings well.
Beaton: Is that all, Madam?
Mary: Unhappily, with him too. Riccio, Darnley, Bothwell. You must not breathe a word of Bothwell, Beaton. That must not be known. But they make a poor, shabby company. Riccio sings, yes, ravishingly. And no more. Darney cannot sing even, and he's my husband. Just a petulance — one cannot even be sorry for it. How he hates Riccio — I wish David were better worth hating. That would be something. And Bothwell wants to take me with a swagger. It's a good swagger, but that's the end of it. I think he will take me yet, the odds against him are pitiful enough. But it's a barren stock of lovers, Beaton. I, who could have made the greatest greater.
