Sonnet 86
Was it the proud full sail of his
great verse
«William Shakespeare»
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize
of (all too precious) you,
That did my ripe
thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the
womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by
spirits taught to write,
Above a mortal pitch,
that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor
his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my
verse astonished.
He nor that affable
familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls
him with intelligence,
As victors of my
silence cannot boast,
I was not sick of any
fear from thence.
But when your
countenance filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter,
that enfeebled mine.
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