Shakespeare's Sonnets: 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 nightGiving him aid, my verse astonishèd.He nor that affable familiar ghostWhich nightly gulls him with intelligenceAs 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't I matter, that enfeebled mine.