SONNET LXXXVI

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 fill'd up his line,
     Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.