O how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wrack’d, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this: my love was my decay.
In plain English
When I try to write about you, I freeze. There's another poet—a better one—already using all his skill to praise you, and he's making me feel too tongue-tied to say anything at all. But your worth is so vast, like an ocean that can carry every kind of vessel, no matter how humble or grand.
So my small, inferior boat ventures onto your waters anyway, recklessly showing up. Even the shallowest part of your help will keep me afloat, while he sails on your depths like a grand ship. If I wreck and sink—worthless—and he thrives with his tall, proud vessel, that's just how it goes.
If he succeeds and I'm lost, it won't matter much. My real ruin is simple: loving you was what undid me.
