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.
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