我的诗篇独得了你全部优美；
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
如今我清新的诗句已变得陈腐，
But now my gracious numbers are decayed,
我的缪斯病倒了，让出了地位。
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
我承认，亲爱的，你这个可爱的主题
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
值得让更好的文笔来惨淡经营；
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
但你的诗人描写你怎样了不起，
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
那是他抢了你又还给你的辞令。
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
他给你美德，而这个词儿是他从
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
你的品行上偷来的；他从你面颊上
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give,
拿到了美又还给你：他只能利用
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
你本来就有的东西来把你颂扬。
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
他给予你的，原是你给他的东西，
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
你就别为了他的话就对他表谢意。
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.