Sonnet LXXXVI
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Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, | 1
Bound for the prize of all too precious you, | 2
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, | 3
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? | 4
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write | 5
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? | 6
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night | 7
Giving him aid, my verse astonished. | 8
He, nor that affable familiar ghost | 9
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence | 10
As victors of my silence cannot boast; | 11
I was not sick of any fear from thence: | 12
    But when your countenance fill'd up his line, | 13
    Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine. | 14
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