莎士比亞．不是想給你的名字招嫉妒，
我這樣竭力贊揚你的人和書；
說你的作品簡直是超凡入聖，
人和詩神怎樣誇也不會過分。
這是實情，誰也不可能有異議。
我本來可不想用這種辦法來稱道你，
生怕給可憐的“無知”開方便之門
（它講得挺好，實際是人云亦云），
也怕讓盲目的“偏愛”隨意搬弄
（它從來不講真實．衹瞎摸亂捧），
也怕叫姦詐的“惡意”撿起來耍花招
（它存心毀謗，因此就故意拾高）。
這就像娼門誇奬了良傢婦女，
還有什麽比這更大的揶揄？
可是你經得起這一套，既不稀罕，
也不怕它們帶給你什麽災難。
因此我可以開言。時代的靈魂！
我們所擊節稱賞的戲劇元勳！
我的莎士比亞，起來吧；我不想安置你
在喬叟、斯賓塞身邊，卜蒙也不必
躺開一點兒，給你騰出個鋪位：
你是不需要陵墓的一個紀念碑，
你還是活着的，衹要你的書還在，
衹要我們會讀書，會說出好歹。
我還有
頭腦，不把你如此相混——
同那些偉大而不相稱的詩才並論：
因為我如果認為要按年代評判，
那當然就必須扯上你同輩的夥伴，
指出你怎樣蓋過了我們的黎裏，
淘氣的基德、馬洛的雄偉的筆力。
儘管你不大懂拉丁，更不通希臘文，
我不到別處去找名字來把你推尊，
我要喚起雷鳴的埃斯庫羅斯，
還有歐裏庇得斯、索福剋勒斯
巴古維烏斯、阿修斯、科多巴詩才
也喚回人世來，聽你的半統靴登臺，
震動劇壇：要是你穿上了輕履，
就讓你獨自去和他們全體來比一比——
不贊是驕希臘，傲羅馬送來的先輩
或者是他們的灰燼裏出來的後代。
得意吧，我的不列顛，你拿得出一個人，
他可以折服歐羅巴全部的戲文。
他不願於一個時代而屬於所有的世紀！
所有的詩才都還在全盛時期，
他出來就像阿波羅聳動了聽聞，
或者像邁剋利顛倒了我們的神魂。
天籟本身以他的心裁而得意，
穿起他的詩句來好不歡喜？
它們是織得多富麗，縫得多合適！
從此她不願叫別的才子來裁製。
輕鬆的希臘人，尖刻的阿裏斯托芬，
利落的泰棱斯，機智的普勞塔斯，到如今
索然無味了，陳舊了，冷清清上了架，
都因為他們並不是天籟世傢。
然而我决不把一切歸之於天成：
溫柔的莎士比亞，你的工夫也有份。
雖說自然就是詩人的材料，
還是靠人工産生形體。誰想要
鑄煉出體筆下那樣的活生生一句話
就必須流汗，必須再燒紅，再錘打，
緊貼着詩神的鐵砧，連人帶件，
扳過來拗過去，為了叫形隨意轉；
要不然桂冠不上頭，笑駡落一身，
團為好詩人靠天生也是靠煉成。
你就是這樣。常見到父親的面容，
活在子女的身上，與此相同，
在他精雕細琢的字裏行間，
莎士比亞心性的兒孫光輝燦爛：
他寫一句詩就像揮一枝長槍，
朝着“無知”的眼睛不留情一晃！
阿文河可愛的天鵝！該多麽好看，
如果你又在我們的水面上出現，
又飛臨泰晤士河岸，想當年就這樣
博得過伊麗莎、詹姆士陛下的激賞！
可是別動吧，我看見你已經高升，
就在天庭上變成了一座星辰！
照耀吧，詩人界泰鬥．或隱或顯，
申斥或鼓舞我們衰落的劇壇；
自從你高飛了，它就像黑夜般凄涼，
盼不到白晝，要沒有你大著放光。
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too much;
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed,
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live
And we have wits to read and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses,
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring {AE}schylus,
Euripides and Sophocles to us;
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Tri{'u}mph, my Britain, thou hast one to show
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines,
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please,
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame,
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born;
And such wert thou. Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-turned, and true-filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanc'd, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.