Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
为什么我的诗缺乏点晴之笔，
So far from variation or quick change?
行文沉闷呆板，千篇一律？
Why with the time do I not glance aside
为什么我的诗不顺应时尚，
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
花样翻新，自铸奇特的伟辞？
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
为什么我总是重复同一个主皆，
And keep invention in a noted weed,
我的所有诗趣总穿同一件诗衣？
That every word doth almost tell my name,
几乎每一个词都打着我的印记，

Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
透露它出自何手，意在何地何时。
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
啊，我的小亲亲，我的笔底明珠，
And you and love are still my argument;
我只是写你、写爱、永远不会换题。
So all my best is dressing old words new,
竭聪尽智，我只能陈辞翻出新意境.
Spending again what is already spent:
旧曲重弹，又何妨故伎今日再重施。
For as the sun is daily new and old,
天上太阳，日日轮因新成旧，
So is my love still telling what is told.
铭心之爱，不尽衷肠诉无休。