Sonnet V

By William Shakespeare


Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,

Will play the tyrants to the very same

And that unfair which fairly doth excel;

For never-resting time leads summer on

To hideous winter, and confounds him there;

Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,

Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:

Then were not summer's distillation left,

A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,

Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:

   But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,

   Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.


Sonnet VI

By William Shakespeare


Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,

In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled:

Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place

With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.

That use is not forbidden usury,

Which happies those that pay the willing loan;

That's for thy self to breed another thee,

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,

If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:

Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,

Leaving thee living in posterity?

   Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair

   To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.


Sonnet CIV

By William Shakespeare


To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,

Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,

In process of the seasons have I seen,

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:

   For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:

   Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.


Sonnet XCI

By William Shakespeare


Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,

Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,

Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,

Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,

Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:

But these particulars are not my measure;

All these I better in one general best.

Thy love is better than high birth to me,

Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,

Of more delight than hawks or horses be;

And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:

   Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take

   All this away and me most wretched make.




By William Shakespeare


That time of year thou may'st in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by-and-by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

   This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,

   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.



By William Shakespeare


Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!

Is't not enough to torture me alone,

But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?

Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,

And my next self thou harder hast engrossed:

Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;

A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.

Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,

But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;

Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;

Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:

   And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,

   Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.


If by Your Art

from The Tempest By William Shakespeare


If by your art, my dearest father, you have

Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.

The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,

But that the sea, mounting to th' welkin’s cheek,

Dashes the fire out. Oh, I have suffered

With those that I saw suffer. A brave vessel

Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her

Dashed all to pieces. Oh, the cry did knock

Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished.

Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere

It should the good ship so have swallowed and

The fraughting souls within her.


O God, That I Were a Man

from Much Ado About Nothing By William Shakespeare



Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman?

O that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands;

and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,

--O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place.



Hear me, Beatrice,--



Talk with a man out at a window! A proper saying!



Nay, but, Beatrice,--



Sweet Hero! She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.






Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony,

a goodly count, Count Comfect;

a sweet gallant, surely!

O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake!

But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it.

I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.


Drei Gesänge, Op.95

text by Karl Julius Körner

Based on three of the Hebrew Melodies by George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824)


1. Jeptha’s Daughter


Da die Heimat, o Vater, da Gott

Von der Tochter verlanget den Tod,

[Dein Gelübde den Feinden gab Schmerz

Hier entblösst ist's, durchbohre mein Herz.]1

Und die Stimme der Klagen ist stumm,

Und mein Werk auf den Bergen ist um!

Wird die Hand, die ich liebe, mich weihn,

Kann der Tod ja nicht schmerzlich mir sein.

Und das schwör ich dir treulich und gut,

Daß so rein ist mein kindliches Blut,

Als der Segen, den strömend es fleht,

Als hienieden mein letztes Gebet!

Ob die Jungfrau Jerusalems klagt,

Sei der Richter, der Held nicht verzagt!

Der Triumph kam durch mich euch herbei,

Und mein Vater, die Heimat sind frei!

Wenn das Blut, das du gabst, ist entwallt,

Die du liebtest, die Stimme verhallt,

[Sei gedenk mein]1, die Ruhm dir erwarb,

Und vergiß nicht, daß lächelnd ich starb.


Since our Country, our God -- Oh, my Sire!

Demand that thy Daughter expire;

Since thy triumph was brought by thy vow --

Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!

And the voice of my mourning is o'er,

And the mountains behold me no more:

If the hand that I love lay me low,

There cannot be pain in the blow!

And of this, oh, my Father! be sure --

That the blood of thy child is as pure

As the blessing I beg ere it flow,

And the last thought that soothes me below.

Though the virgins of Salem lament,

Be the judge and the hero unbent!

I have won the great battle for thee,

And my Father and Country are free!

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,

When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,

Let my memory still be thy pride,

And forget not I smiled as I died!


2 . Sun of the Sleepless


Schlafloser Sonne melanchol'scher Stern!

Dein tränenvoller Strahl erzittert fern,

Du offenbarst die Nacht, die dir nicht weicht -

O wie du ganz des Glücks Erinn'rung gleichst!

So glänzt auch längstvergangner Tage Licht,

Es scheint, doch wärmt sein schwaches Leuchten nicht,

Der Gram sieht wohl des Sterns Gestalt,

Scharf, aber fern, so klar, doch ach! wie kalt!


Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!

Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,

That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,

How like art thou to joy remember'd well!

So gleams the past, the light of other days,

Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;

A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,

Distinct but distant -- clear -- but, oh how cold!


3 Thy Days Are Done


Dein Tag ist aus, dein Ruhm fing an,

Es preist [der Volkgesang]1

Dich Hoher auf des Sieges Bahn,

Dein Schwert im Feindesdrang,

Die Taten all, die du getan,

Jauchzt dir der Freiheit Dank!

Und ob du fielst, so lang wir frei,

Sollst du den Tod nicht sehn,

Dein Blut, [so edlich und so treu]2,

Darf nicht zur Erde gehn,

In unsern Adern fließt es neu,

Dein Geist mög' in uns wehn!

[Dein Name sei dem Heer Signal,

Begiebt's zum Kampfe sich,

Und Jungfraun klagen's im Choral,

Daß unser Held erblich!

Die Trän' entweihete dein Mal

Wir weinen nicht um dich.


Thy days are done, thy fame begun;

Thy country's strains record

The triumphs of her chosen Son,

The slaughter of his sword!

The deeds he did, the fields he won,

The freedom he restored!

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free

Thou shalt not taste of death!

The generous blood that flow'd from thee

Disdain'd to sink beneath:

Within our veins its currents be,

Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name, our charging hosts along,

Shall be the battle-word!

Thy fall, the theme of choral song

From virgin voices pour'd!

To weep would do thy glory wrong:

Thou shalt not be deplored.


Vier Gesänge, Op.17

Johannes Brahms


Es tönt ein voller Harfenklang (The full sound of harps rings out). Text by Friedrich Ruperti


Es tönt ein voller Harfenklang

den Lieb’ und Sehnsucht schwellen,

er dringt zum Herzen tief und bang

und läßt das Auge quellen.


O rinnet, Tränen, nur herab,

o schlage Herz, mit Beben!

Es sanken Lieb’ und Glück ins Grab,

verloren ist das Leben!


 The fulsome harp resounds,

 With love and yearning swollen;

 It penetrates the heart, deeply,

 and leaves the eyes flooded.


 O tears, run down;

 o strike heart, and tremble!

 Sink Love and Happiness in the grave;

 Life is lost!


Lied von Shakespeare (Song from Shakespeare)

Text by August Wilhelm Schlegel, after William Shakespeare from Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 4


Komm herbei, komm herbei, Tod,

Und versenk’ in Cypressen den Leib;

Lass mich frei, lass mich frei, Not,

Mich erschlägt ein holdseliges Weib.

Mit Rosmarin mein Leichenhemd,

O bestellt es!

Ob Lieb’ ans Herz mir tötlich kommt,

Treu’ hält es.


Keine Blum, keine Blum süß,

Sei gestreut auf den schwärzlichen Sarg;

Keine Seel’, keine Seel’ grüß

mein Gebein, wo die Erd’ es verbarg.

Um Ach und Weh zu wenden ab’,

bergt alleine

mich, wo kein Treuer wall’ ans Grab

und weine.


Come away, come away, death,

    And in sad cypress let me be laid.

Fly away, fly away, breath;

    I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

             O, prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true

         Did share it.


Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

    On my black coffin let there be strown.

Not a friend, not a friend greet

    My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

             Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

             To weep there!


Der Gärtner (The Gardener)

Text by Josef Karl Benedikt von Eichendorff


Wohin ich geh’ und schaue,

In Feld und Wald und Tal,

Vom Berg hinab in die Aue;

Viel schöne, hohe Fraue,

Grüß ich dich tausendmal.


In meinem Garten find’ ich

Viel’ Blumen schön und fein,

Viel’ Kränze wohl draus wind’ ich

Und tausend Gedanken bind’ ich

Und Grüße mit darein.


Ihr darf ich keinen reichen,

Sie ist zu hoch und schön,

Die müssen alle verbleichen,

Die Liebe nur ohnegleichen

Bleibt ewig im Herzen stehn.


Ich schein’ wohl froher Dinge

Und schaffe auf und ab,

Und, ob das Herz zerspringe,

Ich grabe fort und singe,

Und grab mir bald mein Grab.


Wherever I go journeying

in field and forest and valley,

down the mountain to the mead;

most beautiful, highest lady,

A thousand thousand times I greet you.


In my garden I find

many fine and pretty flowers;

from them many garlands I weave,

and a thousand thousand thoughts

and greetings into them I bind.


I cannot give it to her,

She being too high and beautiful,

They all must fade,

Love, unreflected, remains

Forever in the heart.


I seem to be happy.

Life goes on,

And whether the heart was breaking,

I dig and I sing.

Soon I dig my grave.


Gesang aus Fingal (Song from “Fingal”)

Anonymous translation of an English text by Ossian

(James MacPherson)


Wein’ an den Felsen, der brausenden Winde

weine, o Mädchen von Inistore!

Beug’ über die Wogen dein schönes Haupt,

lieblicher du als der Geist der Berge,

wenn er um Mittag in einem Sonnenstrahl

über das Schweigen von Morven fährt.


Er ist gefallen, dein Jüngling liegt darnieder,

bleich sank er unter Cuthullins Schwert.

Nimmer wird Mut deinen Liebling mehr reizen,

das Blut von Königen zu vergießen.


Trenar, der liebliche Trenar starb

O Mädchen von Inistore!

Seine grauen Hunde heulen daheim,

sie sehn seinen Geist vorüberziehn.

Sein Bogen hängt ungespannt in der Halle,

nichts regt sich auf der Haide der Rehe.


Weep on the rocks of roaring winds,

O maid of Inistore!

Bend thy fair head over the waves,

thou lovelier than the ghost of the hills,

when it moves on the sun-beam, at noon,

over the silence of Morven.


He is fallen: thy youth is low!

pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin!

No more shall valor raise thy love

to match the blood of kings.


Trenar, graceful Trenar died,

O maid of Inistore!

His gray dogs are howling at home:

they see his passing ghost.

His bow is in the hall unstrung.

No sound is in the hall of his hinds!


Question and Answer

From All’s Well That Ends Well by Wiliam Shakespeare


Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,

Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky

Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull

Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.

What power is it which mounts my love so high,

That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?

The mightiest space in fortune nature brings

To join like likes, and kiss like native things.

Impossible be strange attempts to those

That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose

What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove

To show her merit that did miss her love?



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