Sonnet 86 by William Shakespeare
from Dane's Brain Hosted by Dane Allred
literatureoutloud.com Sonnet LXXXVI by William Shakespeare 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. LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text daneallred.com This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit daneallred.substack.com/subscribe
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