Marina.  The hours
Are flitting fast, and time is precious to me. 
I did not grant a meeting here to thee
To listen to a lover’s tender speeches. 
No need of words.  I well believe thou lovest;
But listen; with thy stormy, doubtful fate
I have resolved to join my own; but one thing,
Dimitry, I require; I claim that thou
Disclose to me thy secret hopes, thy plans,
Even thy fears, that hand in hand with thee
I may confront life boldly—­not in blindness
Of childlike ignorance, not as the slave
And plaything of my husband’s light desires,
Thy speechless concubine, but as thy spouse,
And worthy helpmate of the tsar of Moscow.

Pretender.  O, if it be only for one short hour,
Forget the cares and troubles of my fate! 
Forget ’tis the tsarevich whom thou seest
Before thee.  O, behold in me, Marina,
A lover, by thee chosen, happy only
In thy regard.  O, listen to the prayers
Of love!  Grant me to utter all wherewith
My heart is full.

Marina.  Prince, this is not the time;
Thou loiterest, and meanwhile the devotion
Of thine adherents cooleth.  Hour by hour
Danger becomes more dangerous, difficulties
More difficult; already dubious rumours
Are current, novelty already takes
The place of novelty; and Godunov
Adopts his measures.

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.