把黄土盖上我骨头，而你还健康，
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
并且，你偶尔又重新翻阅我的诗——
And shalt by fortune once more resurvey
你已故爱友的粗糙潦草的诗行，
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
请拿你当代更好的诗句来比较；
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
尽管每一句都胜过我的作品，
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
保存我的吧，为我的爱，论技巧——
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
我不如更加幸福的人们高明。
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
呵，还望你多赐厚爱，这样想：
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
“如果我朋友的诗才随时代发展，
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
他的爱一定会产生更好的诗章，
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
和更有诗才的行列同步向前：
To march in ranks of better equipage;
但自从他一死、诗人们进步了以来，
But since he died and poets better prove,
我读别人的文笔，却读他的爱。”
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.’