be lost. I am too wise in grief. I am wiser even than my blood. That's lamentable, isn't it? But I have come to that.
Bothwell: Woman, why do you waste yourself among crowns and pedlars? Who is Elizabeth—who Darnley? What is Scotland, a black country, barren, that it should consume this beauty? You were born to love, to mate strongly, to challenge passion—this passion, I tell you, this. They come to you, and plead as peevish boys, or watch round corners—winds that cannot stir one tress of that hair. You are not aware of them, you are unmoved. But I am not as these—do you think I will wait and wait? I do not plead. (Taking her in his arms.) You are in my arms—you are no queen, you are my subject. If you stay they will destroy your throne—if you stay you will destroy yourself. You have fires. Can you quench them? Mary, my beloved, I am stronger than you. Come, I bid it.
- (Mary stays a moment, bound in his arms. Then she slowly releases herself)
Mary: It is magnificent. But I told you. I am wiser than my blood.
