Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.
是否他那雄浑的诗句，昂昂然
扬帆直驶去夺取太宝贵的你，
使我成熟的思想在脑里流产，
把孕育它们的胎盘变成墓地?
是否他的心灵，从幽灵学会写
超凡的警句，把我活生生殛毙?
不，既不是他本人，也不是黑夜
遣送给他的助手，能使我昏迷。
他，或他那个和善可亲的幽灵
(它夜夜用机智骗他)，都不能自豪
是他们把我打垮，使我默不作声;
他们的威胁绝不能把我吓倒。
但当他的诗充满了你的鼓励，
我就要缺灵感;这才使我丧气。
