De Engelse schrijfster Lady Anne Fanshawe werd geboren op 25 maart 1625 in Balls Park, bij Hertford. Zie en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2009.
Uit: The Memoirs of Lady Fanshawe
„I have thought it good to discourse to you, my most dear and only son, the most remarkable actions and accidents of your family, as well as those more eminent ones of your father; and my life and necessity, not delight or revenge, hath made me insert some passages which will reflect on their owners, as the praises of others will be but just, which is my intent in this narrative. I would not have you be a stranger to it; because, by the example, you may imitate what is applicable to your condition in the world, and endeavour to avoid those misfortunes we have passed through, if God pleases.
Endeavour to be innocent as a dove, but as wise as a serpent; and let this lesson direct you most in the greatest extremes of fortune. Hate idleness, and curb all passions; be true in all words and actions; unnecessarily deliver not your opinion; but when you do, let it be just, well-considered, and plain. Be charitable in all thought, word and deed, and ever ready to forgive injuries done to yourself, and be more pleased to do good than to receive good.
Be civil and obliging to all, dutiful where God and nature command you; but friend to one, and that friendship keep sacred, as the greatest tie upon earth, and be sure to ground it upon virtue; for no other is either happy or lasting.
Endeavour always to be content in that estate of life which it hath pleased God to call you to, and think it a great fault not to employ your time, either for the good of your soul, or improvement of your understanding, health, or estate; and as these are the most pleasant pastimes, so it will make you a cheerful old age, which is as necessary for you to design, as to make provision to support the infirmities which decay of strength brings: and it was never seen that a vicious youth terminated in a contented, cheerful old age, but perished out of countenance.“
Anne Fanshawe (25 maart 1625 - 1680)
De Italiaanse schrijver Antonio Fogazzaro werd geboren op 25 maart 1842 in Vicenza. Zie en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2009.
Uit: The Saint
„Jeanne rose. "You would not understand any better if I did," she said with a smile. "Shall we have our Italian conversation lesson now?"
"Yes, with pleasure," answered Noemi.
"Where did you go with my brother?"
"To the Hospital of St. John, to call on Memling."
"That's all right; let us talk about Memling. But first tell me whether Carlino made you a declaration?"
The girl laughed. "Yes, he made me a declaration of war, and I did likewise _to he_."
"To him, you should say. I wish he would fall in love with you," added Jeanne seriously. The girl frowned.
"I do not," she said.
"Why? Is he not charming, brilliant, cultured, and distinguished? He is very wealthy too, you know. We may despise riches, but after all they are very good in their way."
Noemi d'Arxel placed her hands on her friend's shoulders, and gazed steadily into her eyes. The blue questioning eyes were grave and sad; the brown eyes, thus scrutinised, bore the gaze with firmness, flashing in turn defiance, embarrassment, and mirth.“
Antonio Fogazzaro (25 maart 1842 – 7 maart 1911)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Daniel Schiebeler werd geboren op 25 maart 1741 in Hamburg. Zie en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2009.
Der Teufel kam vor vielen Jahren
Der Menschen Zustand zu erfahren
Herauf in einem ird’schen Leib.
Er schafte, wie die Menschenkinder,
Sich Haus und Hof und Schaf’ und Rinder,
Er nahm sich gar ein Weib.
Honesta hieß die junge Schöne.
Oft schwoll auf ihrem Kopf die Mähne,
Und Wuth und Herrschsucht warf ihr Blick.
Sie trieb den Teufel recht zu paaren.
Wie sehnt er nicht zu seinen Schaaren,
Zur Hölle sich zurück.
Sie ließ ihm niemals, niemals Friede.
Zuletzt ward er des Streitens müde
Und schlich im Stillen sich davon,
Und fuhr, als er sich weggestohlen,
Von seinem Schmerz sich zu erholen,
In einen Musensohn.
Hier konnt er recht nach Wunsch regieren,
Er schrieb Satyren auf Satyren,
Voll Rachsucht, Neid und Menschenhaß.
Man strebt umsonst ihn zu beschwören.
Der Teufel läßt sich nicht bethören
Und quält den Dichter baß.
Da kam mit Pauken und Trompeten
Ein Arzt zur Wohnung des Poeten;
Der Teufel fragt: Wer pocht ans Haus?
Der Arzt spricht lächelnd: Ein Dame,
Jung, schön, Honesta ist ihr Name.
Gleich zog der Teufel aus.
Daniel Schiebeler (25 maart 1741 – 19 augustus 1771)
Hamburg rond 1700 (Geen portret beschikbaar)
De Engelse dichteres en schrijfster Mary Webb werd geboren als Gladys Mary Meredith in Leighton, Shropshire. Zie en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2009.
Uit: Armour wherin he trusted
„In the forest are many voices, and no man riding under the leaves hears the same voice as his companion. For they are diverse as the steep winding paths up into Heaven-Town, to which no man can come by any other way than that his own torch shows him, though the good burgesses leaning over the battlements, picking their teeth, should shout a plain direction to him.
For though one says, 'Come thou through the brake fern, there to the left,' and another says, 'No, yonder by the great yew-tree!' and a third crieth that he must go through the deep heather, yet he knows that his one only way is by the Christ-thorn gleaming above the chasm.
So in the forest a man must hear with his own ears the carol that is for him, and one will hear a very sad song, with pine-trees in it, rasping needle on needle and cone on cone, and another will hear flutes and dulcimers afar, as you hear on the white roads of holy Italy. Nor will a man well stricken in years hear the same music as a lad.
So I, riding alone in the oak woods, wending towards Powis (which as all men know is in the Marches of Wales, a savage country in part, but quieter in Sciropshire and ruled and misruled by the Lords Marchers), a young knight in my hey-day, being then one score and three years, lusty, care-free and love-free, heard in the springing April forest on every side the voices of faeries, lively and mocking and beguiling. Not near, nor very far, but where the trees drew together, even where the mist began, they were, hovering in a cloud like midges on a summer day.
Though my eyes were keen enough, I might peer and peer, but see nought of them, not so much as a wing-tip or a gleam of flaxen hair. But in the great stillness of the day I could hear them, mourning like doves, laughing like woodpeckers, shivering into a scatter of sweet notes like painted glass in fragments, belling like frogs in the marishes.“
Mary Webb (25 maart 1881 – 8 oktober 1927)
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2007.
De Zwitserse schrijfster en beeldhouwster Erica Pedretti werd geboren op 25 maart 1930 in Šternberk (Tsjechië).
25-03-2010 om 20:11
geschreven door Romenu