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