My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, 我的诗也就独自承蒙你高雅的惠顾；

　　But now my gracious numbers are decay'd And my sick Muse doth give another place. 可而今我笔下不再有绣句珍词，我那病缪斯只好把神龛拱手让出。

　　I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument 甜爱啊，我承认你这个可亲的题目

　　Deserves the travail of a worthier pen, 须有高人健笔纵横、大书特书，

　　Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent 但描写你的诗人尽管有笔下惊雷，

　　He robs thee of and pays it thee again. 他不过是抢你又还你恰似物归原主。

　　He lends thee virtue and he stole that word From thy behavior; beauty doth he give 颂扬你的德，不过偷自你高尚的行为，讴歌你的美，不过取自你双颊的凝肤。

　　And found it in thy cheek; he can afford No praise to thee but what in thee doth live. 他不过把你原有的东西又还你本人，离开你他的颂词必然会语竭词枯。

　　Then thank him not for that which he doth say, 既然他付给你的无非是归还旧账，

　　Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. 那么你对他的作为完全不必褒扬。