Darnley: Well—I'm not. It's a mistake to think it. I could make rhymes like that by the bushel if they were worth it. It's a very ugly song, that.
Mary: It was nothing, my lord. A tune for idleness.
Darnley: I am instructed.
Riccio: Shall I make such a one for the King?
Darnley: As this was for the Queen?
Riccio: If I have not offended. Would it be Your Grace's pleasure.
Darnley: There may not be time.
Riccio: Time?
Darnley: Yes, you know, by the clock. It passes. Tick, tick, tick, tick — and you never know. A rhyme, for instance. You get one line, and then two, and another, and the end may come, suddenly. In kings' palaces, that is. Who knows?
Riccio (afraid): We minstrels delight in parables. You speak in a fine figure, my lord. But—you do not mean that my poor song has angered you?
Darnley: A thought only for your next. A suggestion. The poet, and time, passing, tick,
