Sonnet 86. Was it the proud full sail of his great verse

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.