Si a mis días dichosos sobrevives,
Cuando Muerte, ese patán, cubra mis huesos
De polvo, si relees por ventura
Los versos toscos de un difunto amigo,
Compáralos con los talentos nuevos,
Y si los sobrepuja toda pluma
Valora el amor y no las rimas
Superadas por otros más felices.
Dedícame este dulce pensamiento:
"Si en estos tiempos prósperos viviese,
Su amor mejor vástago engendrara,
Para marchar entre mejores huestes.
Si ha muerto, y poetas hay mejores,
De él leo el amor y no el estilo.

If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.