tick, tick, and the rhyme on the lips, and then—as you will, I give it you—it may help invention.
Riccio: And—it means nothing more?
Mary: Come, David, how should it? (Directly to him.) Poets are men, I hope.
Riccio: Surely, Madam. I will work upon it, Sire. A sonnet, perhaps—no, a ballade—and yet, for the lute—
Darnley: Consider it. (Going to the door.) There is a moon. It helps, I am told.
(He signs for Riccio to go)
Riccio: Your Grace, I am sure, would not misjudge me.
Darnley. No.
(Riccio goes)
Mary: What is it?
Darnley: Shamelessly—so.
Mary: What do you mean?
Darnley: Always at your ear.
Mary: Well?
Darnley: What has he been saying to you?
Mary: It would be tedious.
Darnley: What is he, this fellow? Your lover?
