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- LXXXVI
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- 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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