Mary: It must not be. No—not yet.
Bothwell: I fear for your safety.
Mary: Why should you fear? I do not.
Bothwell: But you must. Danger moves everywhere.
Mary: I am on terms with danger. I am used to it.
Bothwell: But for those who love you—
Mary: Those—who are they?
Bothwell: For me who love you.
Mary: Man, do you love me so well?
Bothwell: You know it.
Mary: You believe it.
Bothwell: Why do you deny yourself always, thus? Why do you not believe my devotion? What gain is there in this refusal and refusal? Come away with me. Your throne means nothing to you as the time is—your authority is drained on every side—you are threatened daily. The lords work against you—England waits the moment that seems to her to be almost here—the certain moment. Leave it all. Come with me.
Mary: No, it cannot be. All would be lost then irrevocably.
