Bothwell (again moving to her): Mary—Mary! You know it, you know.
Mary: Don't. Think!
Bothwell: I have thought, and it is enough. You may desert all, but not this.
Mary: Listen. You woo well—boldly, at least. Better than Darnley ever did, and Riccio has no more than a little elegance. And he whines. So did Darnley. But you have courage. You are aflame, and I kindle—yes, I tell you so much. What then? Should we leave Scotland? No. Queens are limed. And here, what is there for us but stealthy moments, fugitive? I should burn to them, but they would but add more smother to my life. I do not know what may come—I love you, yes, if you will—but no hope is in it, none. For I must tell you. I am of those who must be loved always, for all things, for there to be any peace in love. If you, or any man, could fathom that——ah, then! And of such I could be the queen of one, or many. That is not wanton—that is a wisdom that life tells to just one here and there. I have it in my brain, but it will not be used. The wisdom will fade away in my brain, wither
