Az angol és a német hogyhogy egy nyelvcsaládba tartoznak?

Látom, elég régi kérdés, de azért válaszolok. :)

Beowulf (óangol / angolszász és mai angol):

Hwæt! Wé Gárdena in géardagum

þéodcyninga þrym gefrúnon·

hú ðá æþelingas ellen fremedon.

Oft Scyld Scéfing sceaþena þréatum

monegum maégþum meodosetla oftéah

egsode Eorle syððan aérest wearð

féasceaft funden hé þæs frófre gebád

wéox under wolcnum weorðmyndum þáh

oð þæt him aéghwylc þára ymbsittendra

ofer hronráde hýran scolde,

gomban gyldan: þæt wæs gód cyning!

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings

of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,

we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!

Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,

from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,

awing the earls. Since erst he lay

friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:

for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,

till before him the folk, both far and near,

who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,

gave him gifts: a good king he!

Canterbury mesék (középkori angol és mai angol)

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

By which power the flower is created;

Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye

(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages),

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially from every shires ende

Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

When April with its sweet-smelling showers

Has pierced the drought of March to the root,

And bathed every vein in such liquid

By which power the flower is created;

When the West Wind also with its sweet breath,

In every wood and field has breathed life into

The tender new leaves, and the young sun

Has run half its course in Aries,

And small fowls make melody,

Those that sleep all the night with open eyes

(So Nature incites them in their hearts),

Then folk long to go on pilgrimages,

And professional pilgrims to seek foreign shores,

To distant shrines, known in various lands;

And specially from every shire's end

Of England to Canterbury they travel,

To seek the holy blessed martyr,

Who helped them when they were sick.