less, if you will, but not that. Not of Riccio, Madam.
Mary: You correct me.
Riccio: I know you as you do not yourself.
Mary: This Holyrood is a grey place. A little phrase will tell.
Riccio: It is the chosen palace of the world.
Mary: Yes, your gallantry has an echo, David, a dear one.
Riccio: Let it be that. I will serve even so.
Mary: France—it is a word that I think will become surfeiting in time, it is so beautiful. France. Too sweet, men will say, lilies too often sung, and stale. But how precious it is! They can love there.
Riccio: We are of the south.
Mary: Yes, you have a good suit there.
Riccio: If you would but listen.
Mary: I listen, daily.
Riccio: I do not persuade well.
Mary: You spare nothing.
Riccio: I am suspect in the palace, more and more. Your lord the King, chiefly.
Mary: Do you stay in Scotland for popularity? They do not choose your kind, David.
