think I choose this hungry grief of passion—deal in it like a little poet? All should be resolved and clear in me, with a king to match my kingdom. My love is crazed, a turbulence, without direction. It was made to move in long, deep assurance, moulding me beyond my knowledge. I, who should be love, may but burn and burn with the love that I am not. Where is my prophet? Everywhere blind eyes. I took you, I wedded you, I made you King. And you mince, and gossip, and listen at the door. I could have taught you the finest husbandry that Scotland has ever known. And your soul's policy brings you to this. Your craft—the craft of Scotland's excellence—against the poor half-wit of David Riccio. And you have your pride!
Darnley: That, at least. For me the rest is past.
Mary: It has never been.
Darnley: No matter—my pride is my pride, I tell you. Riccio goes, one way or another. I know my own will—you can't preach me out of that. (At the window.) Look at them, virtuous men and bad men, priests and wenches,
