#sonnet 86

[shakespeare-will-world]

Шекспир. 86 сонет. Перевод С. Маршака. Shakespeare. 86 sonnets. Перевод С. Marshak.

[p-isforpoetry]

Sonnet 86 by William Shakespeare (read by Alex Jennings)

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 filled up his line,    Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

Source: The Sonnets, 2000

[p-isforpoetry]

Sonnet 86 by William Shakespeare (read by Sir Patrick Stewart)

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 filled up his line,    Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

[theshakespearesonnets]

Sonnet 86: Was It The Proud Full Sail Of His Great Verse

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.

Translation to modern English

Was it the power of his poetry, intended to win you, that prevented me from putting my thoughts into words? Was it his creativity, influenced by writers now dead, that makes him write better than anyone else that beat me into silence? No, it wasn’t he, nor the great dead writers from whom he learns by reading them during the night, that inhibited my verse. Neither he nor that friendly ghost that tricks him with false information every night can boast of victory in this question of my silence. I wasn’t impaired because of any fear of them, but when you paid his verse attention, thereby making it more significant than it is, I found I had nothing to say. So it was you that made my verse feeble.

[shakespeare-sonnettos]

Sonnet LXXXVI

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 filled up his line,

Then I lacked matter, that enfeebled mine.

[shakespeareweekly]

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 filled up his line, Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

Sonnet 86

[marlovingian]

Still deep in Marlowe feels this week. I was reading A.L. Rowse on Shakespeare's Sonnet 86, which he argues is about Marlowe. (Having spent the last month reading Marlowe biographies, I'm strongly inclined to agree.)

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 filled up his line, Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

What I love best about the implications of the poem is that the rival poet in question received his genius from supernatural sources. Which, knowing Marlowe's obsessions with the supernatural-- (I've been reading a biography of Marlowe by Park Honan, which I highly recommend, and one of my favorite bits is wherein the biographer lists the occult texts that Marlowe references "... Cornelius Agrippa’s great De Occulta Philosophia Libri Tres and Peter of Albano’s Magical First Principles. As if to share his hero’s experience, the poet is detailed and precise, and Faustus offers a technically more exact view of conjuring than any other sixteenth-century play.") --is extremely plausible.

Shakespeare: Wert thou taught by Mephistophilis to write so above a mortal pitch? Marlowe: *with a lecherous smirk* Nightly. Shakespeare: ... Thou wouldst.

[shakespeareandtheatre]

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 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 fil'd up his line,    Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.