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Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. 当初我独自一个恳求你协助，
只有我的诗占有你一切妩媚；
但现在我清新的韵律既陈腐，
我的病诗神只好给别人让位。
我承认，爱呵，你这美妙的题材
值得更高明的笔的精写细描；
可是你的诗人不过向你还债，
他把夺自你的当作他的创造。
他赐你美德，美德这词他只从
你的行为偷取；他加给你秀妍，
其实从你颊上得来；他的歌颂
没有一句不是从你身上发见。
那么，请别感激他对你的称赞，
既然他只把欠你的向你偿还。
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