莎士比亚．不是想给你的名字招嫉妒，
我这样竭力赞扬你的人和书；
说你的作品简直是超凡入圣，
人和诗神怎样夸也不会过分。
这是实情，谁也不可能有异议。
我本来可不想用这种办法来称道你，
生怕给可怜的“无知”开方便之门
（它讲得挺好，实际是人云亦云），
也怕让盲目的“偏爱”随意搬弄
（它从来不讲真实．只瞎摸乱捧），
也怕叫奸诈的“恶意”捡起来耍花招
（它存心毁谤，因此就故意拾高）。
这就像娼门夸奖了良家妇女，
还有什么比这更大的揶揄？
可是你经得起这一套，既不稀罕，
也不怕它们带给你什么灾难。
因此我可以开言。时代的灵魂！
我们所击节称赏的戏剧元勋！
我的莎士比亚，起来吧；我不想安置你
在乔叟、斯宾塞身边，卜蒙也不必
躺开一点儿，给你腾出个铺位：
你是不需要陵墓的一个纪念碑，
你还是活着的，只要你的书还在，
只要我们会读书，会说出好歹。
我还有头脑，不把你如此相混——
同那些伟大而不相称的诗才并论：
因为我如果认为要按年代评判，
那当然就必须扯上你同辈的伙伴，
指出你怎样盖过了我们的黎里，
淘气的基德、马洛的雄伟的笔力。
尽管你不大懂拉丁，更不通希腊文，
我不到别处去找名字来把你推尊，
我要唤起雷鸣的埃斯库罗斯，
还有欧里庇得斯、索福克勒斯
巴古维乌斯、阿修斯、科多巴诗才
也唤回人世来，听你的半统靴登台，
震动剧坛：要是你穿上了轻履，
就让你独自去和他们全体来比一比——
不赞是骄希腊，傲罗马送来的先辈
或者是他们的灰烬里出来的后代。
得意吧，我的不列颠，你拿得出一个人，
他可以折服欧罗巴全部的戏文。
他不愿于一个时代而属于所有的世纪！
所有的诗才都还在全盛时期，
他出来就像阿波罗耸动了听闻，
或者像迈克利颠倒了我们的神魂。
天籁本身以他的心裁而得意，
穿起他的诗句来好不欢喜？
它们是织得多富丽，缝得多合适！
从此她不愿叫别的才子来裁制。
轻松的希腊人，尖刻的阿里斯托芬，
利落的泰棱斯，机智的普劳塔斯，到如今
索然无味了，陈旧了，冷清清上了架，
都因为他们并不是天籁世家。
然而我决不把一切归之于天成：
温柔的莎士比亚，你的工夫也有份。
虽说自然就是诗人的材料，
还是靠人工产生形体。谁想要
铸炼出体笔下那样的活生生一句话
就必须流汗，必须再烧红，再锤打，
紧贴着诗神的铁砧，连人带件，
扳过来拗过去，为了叫形随意转；
要不然桂冠不上头，笑骂落一身，
团为好诗人靠天生也是靠炼成。
你就是这样。常见到父亲的面容，
活在子女的身上，与此相同，
在他精雕细琢的字里行间，
莎士比亚心性的儿孙光辉灿烂：
他写一句诗就像挥一枝长枪，
朝着“无知”的眼睛不留情一晃！
阿文河可爱的天鹅！该多么好看，
如果你又在我们的水面上出现，
又飞临泰晤士河岸，想当年就这样
博得过伊丽莎、詹姆士陛下的激赏！
可是别动吧，我看见你已经高升，
就在天庭上变成了一座星辰！
照耀吧，诗人界泰斗．或隐或显，
申斥或鼓舞我们衰落的剧坛；
自从你高飞了，它就像黑夜般凄凉，
盼不到白昼，要没有你大著放光。
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.