William Shakespeare
Warwickshire
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Sonnet Lxxxvi

Rating: 5.0
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;
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COMMENTS
? ? ? ? ? ? 29 January 2019
Wow he is is an legand
1 0 Reply
Brian Jani 26 April 2014
Awesome I like this poem, check mine out 
2 1 Reply

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