No More Learning

PRETENDER. Listen! Perhaps
He's but exhausted by the loss of blood,
And will recover.

PUSHKIN. Nay, nay; he is dying.

PRETENDER. (Goes to his horse. )
My poor horse! --what to do? Take off the bridle,
And loose the girth. Let him at least die free.

(He unbridles and unsaddles the horse. Some Poles
enter. )

Good day to you, gentlemen! How is't I see not
Kurbsky among you?
I did note today
How to the thick of the fight he clove his path;
Around the hero's sword, like swaying ears
Of corn, hosts thronged; but higher than all of them
His blade was brandished, and his terrible cry
Drowned all cries else. Where is my knight?

POLE. He fell
On the field of battle.

PRETENDER. Honour to the brave,
And peace be on his soul! How few unscathed
Are left us from the fight! Accursed Cossacks,
Traitors and miscreants, you, you it is
Have ruined us! Not even for three minutes
To keep the foe at bay! I'll teach the villains!
Every tenth man I'll hang. Brigands!

PUSHKIN. Whoe'er
Be guilty, all the same we were clean worsted,
Routed!

PRETENDER. But yet we nearly conquered.