beth. She collects them—half the poets of England send her mottoes in this kind. They know better, but it humours her. I myself can match them—excel them, Pierre Ronsard tells me. But what have these to do with me? I have a husband.
Riccio: A husband?
Mary: And he is nothing. I should, being Mary Stuart, forget him, but he hangs about the place. And I say that to you, David, to you, licensed with the graces of my lovely France, and with some favours in your remembrance, eh? And what do you answer?
Riccio: Answer?
Mary: God, man, yes, answer.
Riccio: If my lord the King fails, may not I—
Mary: Console my—exile?
Riccio: It is allowed.
Mary: A justifiable intrigue? Commendable, even?
Riccio: You know it. Madam.
Mary: And what is your device for the occasion, David?
Riccio: To tell you this—always and al-
