Sonnet 86

The Rival Poet

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