Only black cassocks, only hears the bell.

Yawning by day you wander, wander, nothing

To do; you doze; the whole night long till daylight

The poor monk lies awake; and when in sleep

You lose yourself, black dreams disturb the soul;

Glad that they sound the bell, that with a crutch

They rouse you. No, I will not suffer it!

I cannot! Through this fence I'll flee! The world

Is great; my path is on the highways never

Thou'lt hear of me again.

MONK. Truly your life

Is but a sorry one, ye dissolute,

Wicked young monks!

GREGORY. Would that the Khan again

Would come upon us, or Lithuania rise

Once more in insurrection. Good! I would then

Cross swords with them! Or what if the tsarevich

Should suddenly arise from out the grave,

Should cry, "Where are ye, children, faithful servants?

Help me against Boris, against my murderer!

Seize my foe, lead him to me!"

MONK. Enough, my friend,

Of empty babble. We cannot raise the dead.

No, clearly it was fated otherwise

For the tsarevich - But hearken; if you wish

To do a thing, then do it.

GREGORY. What to do?

MONK. If I were young as thou, if these grey hairs

Had not already streaked my beard - Dost take me?

GREGORY. Not I.

MONK. Hearken; our folk are dull of brain,

Easy of faith, and glad to be amazed

By miracles and novelties. The boyars

Remember Godunov as erst he was,

Peer to themselves; and even now the race