If thou survive my well-contented day,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

Compare them with the bettering of the time,

And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,

Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

Exceeded by the height of happier men.

O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,

A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To march in ranks of better equipage:

But since he died and poets better prove,

Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

倘你活過我躊躇滿志的大限，

當鄙夫"死神"用黃土把我掩埋，

偶然重翻這拙劣可憐的詩卷，

你情人生前寫來獻給你的愛，

把它和當代俊逸的新詩相比，

發覺它的詞筆處處都不如人，

請保留它專為我的愛，而不是

為那被幸運的天才凌駕的韻。

哦，那時候就請賜給我這愛思：

"要是我朋友的詩神與時同長，

他的愛就會帶來更美的產兒，

可和這世紀任何杰作同俯仰：

但他既死去，詩人們又都邁進，

我讀他們的文采，卻讀他的心。"