It never seemed to me that you needed to be praised,
I never described your beauty with profuse or elaborate rhetoric. I could see that you were better than any praise a poet could give you.
I haven’t exerted myself to describe you, so that you yourself, since you’re still alive, could show everybody how much more worthy you are than my commonplace writing style can describe.
You decided that this silence on my part was a fault, but I’m particularly proud of my muteness. By remaining silent, at least I don’t damage you, whereas other writers try to bring you to life in their writing, and kill you instead.
You possess more life in one of your handsome eyes than all of your poets could invent by praising you.