1593-1603 by Shakespeare 
Sonnet 86 

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