When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
倘你活过我踌躇满志的大限，
当鄙夫"死神"用黄土把我掩埋，
偶然重翻这拙劣可怜的诗卷，
你情人生前写来献给你的爱，
把它和当代俊逸的新诗相比，
发觉它的词笔处处都不如人，
请保留它专为我的爱，而不是
为那被幸运的天才凌驾的韵。
哦，那时候就请赐给我这爱思：
"要是我朋友的诗神与时同长，
他的爱就会带来更美的产儿，
可和这世纪任何杰作同俯仰：
但他既死去，诗人们又都迈进，
我读他们的文采，却读他的心。"
