And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; And gentlemen in England now a-bed, Shall think themselves accursed, they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. Und nimmer geht Crispianusfest vorbei Shakspeare. 7 The two Gentlemen of Verona. (Act III. Scene II.) Proteus. As much as I can do, I will effect: Duke. Ay, much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. Proteus. Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity: For Orpheus' lute was strung with poet's sinews, Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, So viel, als ich vermag, will gern ich thun. Doch Ihr, Sir Thurio, seid nicht schlau genug; Mit den Gelübden Eures Minnediensts. Der Herzog. Ja, mächtig ist die Göttin Poesie. Proteus. Sagt, auf dem Altar ihrer Schönheit brächtet Ihr Thränen, Seufzer, Euer Herz ihr dar; Schreibt, bis die Tinte trocken, feuchtet sie Mit Thränen wieder an, und schmiedet Verse, Die künden Eurer Liebe Lauterkeit. So stark besaitet war ja Orpheus' Leier, Daß Erz und Steine rührt' ihr goldner Klang, Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans Visit by night your lady's chamber-window |