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Who will believe my verse in time to come
将来谁会相信我这些歌唱，
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
如果你至高的美德溢满诗章？
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
尽管天知道这只是一座坟墓，
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
葬着你的命，难使你德行张扬。
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
如果我能描摹你流盼的美目，
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
把你的千娇百媚织入我的诗行，
The age to come would say 'This poet lies,
未来的时代会说："这位诗人撒谎
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'
这样的天工之笔从未描过尘世的面庞
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
于是我的诗稿带着岁月的熏黄，
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
将受到嘲弄，像嘲弄饶舌的老头一样。
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
你应得的礼赞被看作是诗人的狂想，
And stretched meter of an antique song:
或看作一首古曲的虚饰夸张：
But were some child of yours alive that time,
但如果那时侯你有子孙健在，
You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.
你就双倍活于他身和我的诗行。
