Who will believe my verse in time to come.
后人有谁会相信我的诗行，
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
假如里面载满着对你美德的颂扬？
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
毕竟，天知道，它只会象坟墓一样，
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
把你的生命和一半的本色掩埋。
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
如果我能写出你的眉目流盼，
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
用清新的韵律细数你的仪志万千，
The age to come would say ,"this poet lies:
将来人们会说：“这诗人简直谎话连篇：
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces."
如此国色天姿哪会流落人间！”
So should my papers yellowed with their age
于是我的诗稿将岁月熏黄，
Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue,
被人讥讽为饶舌老人的信口雌黄。
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage
你的真实容貌将被视为诗人的狂想，
And stretched metre of an antique song:
或是一首古老歌曲夸张的翻版：
But were some child of yours alive that time,
但你如果有孩子活在那时，
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
你会拥有两个生命，在孩子身上，也在我诗行。
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