How can my Muse want subject to invent,

While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse?

O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;

For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou thyself dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

If my slight Muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

我的詩神怎么會找不到詩料，

當你還呼吸著，灌注給我的詩哦，

感謝你自己吧，如果我詩中

有值得一讀的獻給你的目光：

哪里有啞巴，寫到你，不善禱頌--

既然是你自己照亮他的想象？

做第十位藝神吧，你要比凡夫

所祈求的古代九位高明得多；

有誰向你呼吁，就讓他獻出

一些可以傳久遠的不朽詩歌。

　　我卑微的詩神如可取悅于世，

　　痛苦屬于我，所有贊美全歸你。