No me ocurre igual que a ese poeta
Que inspirándose en falsas hermosuras
Escoge por ornato el firmamento:
Compara a su beldad con cuanto es bello,
Y elabora símiles audaces
Con el sol, la luna y ricas gemas,
Con las flores de abril y las rarezas
En la esfera celeste atesoradas.
Si escribo enamorado, soy sincero,
Y creedme, no hay quien sobrepuje
A mi amor en belleza, aunque no brille
Cual las lámparas fijas en los cielos.
Diga más quien guste hablar en vano,
Pues yo no adularé lo que no vendo.

So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.