Francisco de Zurbarán
oil on canvas, 1632
Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Buenos Aires
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Archive for the Painting Category
Nesso rapisce Deianira
Posted in Greek Myth, Painting with tags Guido Reni on November 4, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Guido Reni
oil on canvas, 1617-21
Musée du Louvre
Autoritratto
Posted in Painting with tags Annibale Carracci, Self Portrait on November 3, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Annibale Carracci
oil on canvas, c. 1604
The Hermitage
Dejanira (Automne)
Posted in Painting with tags Gustave Moreau on November 3, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Gustave Moreau
oil on panel, c. 1872-73
The J. Paul Getty Museum
Tre Capricci
Posted in Architecture, Painting with tags Capriccio, Italy, Pietro Paltronieri, Ruins on November 2, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Il sogno di Costantino
Posted in Painting with tags Arezzo, Constantine the Great, Piero della Francesca on October 27, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Piero della Francesca
fresco, 1454-58
Basilica di San Francesco, Arezzo
Saint Crispin’s Day
Posted in Painting, Poetry with tags Ambrosius Francken I, Henry V, Saint Crispin, William Shakespeare on October 25, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
If we are mark’d to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words—
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester—
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
