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.

我的诗神怎么会找不到诗料，

当你还呼吸着，灌注给我的诗哦，

感谢你自己吧，如果我诗中

有值得一读的献给你的目光：

哪里有哑巴，写到你，不善祷颂--

既然是你自己照亮他的想象？

做第十位艺神吧，你要比凡夫

所祈求的古代九位高明得多；

有谁向你呼吁，就让他献出

一些可以传久远的不朽诗歌。

　　我卑微的诗神如可取悦于世，

　　痛苦属于我，所有赞美全归你。