Sonnet 17

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

在将来的日子谁会相信我的诗句，

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
即便它充满了你最高最美的壮举？
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb,

虽然，天知道，它仅像是座坟墓

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

那里隐藏你的生命，连你全部的一半都未显露。
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

如果我能书写你一双眼睛的美艳，

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

并用新鲜数字编列你所有的优点，

The age to come would say: "This poet lies,"

未来的日子将说："这诗人在欺骗：”

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

这种天堂的触摸从未触碰地上的脸！

So should my papers yellow'd with their age,

于是我的诗册，将随着岁月而发黄，

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

像废话连篇的老人，被人鄙视淡忘；

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

且你真实的存在被认作诗人的癫狂，

And stretched metre of an antique song:

并认作一支古老歌谣被拉伸如弹簧：
But were some child of yours alive that time,

但到那时你若有些后代仍活在世间，

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

你当活两次：在他并我的诗韵里面。