Translated by S. T. Coleridge.
Times are not yet so bad. Methinks I see
[Examining with his eye the dress and ornaments of QUESTENBERG. Good store of gold that still remains uncoined.
Thank Heaven! that means have been found out to hide
Some little from the fingers of the Croats.
There! The Stawata and the Martinitz,
On whom the emperor heaps his gifts and graces,
To the heart-burning of all good Bohemians--
Those minions of court favor, those court harpies,
Who fatten on the wrecks of citizens
Driven from their house and home--who reap no harvests
Save in the general calamity--
Who now, with kingly pomp, insult and mock
The desolation of their country--these,
Let these, and such as these, support the war,
The fatal war, which they alone enkindled!
And those state-parasites, who have their feet
So constantly beneath the emperor's table,
Who cannot let a benefice fall