PRETENDER. What is Godunov? Is thy sweet love, my only blessedness, Swayed by Boris? Nay, nay. Indifferently I now regard his throne, his kingly power. Thy love--without it what to me is life, And glory's glitter, and the state of Russia? On the dull steppe, in a poor mud hut, thou-- Thou wilt requite me for the kingly crown; Thy love-- MARINA. For shame! Forget not, prince, thy high And sacred destiny; thy dignity Should be to thee more dear than all the joys Of life and its allurements. It thou canst not With anything compare. Not to a boy, Insanely boiling, captured by my beauty-- But to the heir of Moscow's throne give I My hand in solemn wise, to the tsarevich Rescued by destiny. PRETENDER. Torture me not, Charming Marina; say not that 'twas my rank And not myself that thou didst choose. Marina! Thou knowest not how sorely thou dost wound My heart thereby. What if--O fearful doubt!-- Say, if blind destiny had not assigned me A kingly birth; if I were not indeed Son of Ivan, were not this boy, so long Forgotten by the world--say, then wouldst thou Have loved me? MARINA. Thou art Dimitry, and aught else Thou canst not be; it is not possible For me to love another. PRETENDER. Nay! Enough-- I have no wish to share with a dead body A mistress who belongs to him; I have done With counterfeiting, and will tell the truth. Know, then, that thy Dimitry long ago Perished, was buried--and will not rise again; And dost thou wish to know what man I am? Well, I will tell thee. I am--a poor monk. Grown weary of monastic servitude, I pondered 'neath the cowl my bold design, Made ready for the world a miracle-- And from my cell at last fled to the Cossacks, To their wild hovels; there I learned to handle Both steeds and swords; I showed myself to you. I called myself Dimitry, and deceived The brainless Poles. What say'st thou, proud Marina? Art thou content with my confession? Why Dost thou keep silence? MARINA. O shame! O woe is me! (Silence.) PRETENDER. (Sotto voce.) O whither hath a fit of anger led me? The happiness devised with so much labour I have, perchance, destroyed for ever. Idiot, What have I done? (Aloud.) I see thou art ashamed Of love not princely; so pronounce on me The fatal word; my fate is in thy hands. Decide; I wait. (Falls on his knees.) MARINA. Rise, poor pretender! Think'st thou To please with genuflex on my vain heart, As if I were a weak, confiding girl? You err, my friend; prone at my feet I've seen Knights and counts nobly born; but not for this Did I reject their prayers, that a poor monk-- PRETENDER. (Rises.) Scorn not the young pretender; noble virtues May lie perchance in him, virtues well worthy Of Moscow's throne, even of thy priceless hand--