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Madeline Reads Shakespeare's 86th 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 enhearse, 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 infeebl'd mine. I'm in the process of reading all Shakespeare's sonnets aloud. My interpretation is drawn from the 1609 quarto, as emended by CD Atkins.