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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.
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