Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/34

 Our most holy things, our customs, language, ancestors defile! But we have now all your measure, O you scoundrels mean and vile! Yes, to gain without an effort is your end, and rich to be, Virtue is the merest folly, genius is but misery!

Let the ancestors sleep soundly in their annals’ dusty book, From their glorious past they surely down on you with scorn would look. Where art thou, old prince, Vlad Tzepesh, on them all to lay thy hands Treating them as rogues and madmen, to divide them into bands, Throw them into two big houses, as with others thou didst whilom, Setting fire unto the prison, and the lunatic asylum.