If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

　　Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb

　　Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.

　　If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

　　And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

　　The age to come would say 'This poet lies;

　　Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

　　So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,

　　Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,

　　And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

　　And stretched metre of an antique song:

　　But were some child of yours alive that time,

　　You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.

　　未来的时代谁会相信我的诗，

　　如果它充满了你最高的美德?

　　虽然，天知道，它只是一座墓地

　　埋着你的生命和一半的本色。

　　如果我写得出你美目的流盼，

　　用清新的韵律细数你的秀妍，

　　未来的时代会说："这诗人撒谎：

　　这样的天姿哪里会落在人间!"

　　于是我的诗册，被岁月所熏黄，

　　就要被人藐视，像饶舌的老头;

　　你的真容被诬作诗人的疯狂，

　　以及一支古歌的夸张的节奏：

　　但那时你若有个儿子在人世，

　　你就活两次：在他身上，在诗里