Shakespeare's Sonnet 86

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 nightGiving him aid, my verse astonished.He, nor that affable familiar ghostWhich 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 lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

Was it the proud, full sail of his magnificent poetry, heading for the prize of you, so incredibly precious, that buried my fully formed thoughts in my brain, turning the place that gave them birth into their tomb? Was it his genius, taught by spirits to write beyond human ability, that struck me dead? No, neither he nor the companions who help him at night stunned my poetry into silence. Neither he nor that friendly spirit who tricks him nightly with revelations can boast of conquering my silence. I was not weakened by any fear of them. But when your favor filled his lines, I had nothing left to write about. That was what weakened my poetry.