The Network Layout of each sonnet shows how Shakespeare wove together words to build a sonnet. Each circle is a word and the lines show the direction (or link) to the next word. The color of the circle is an approximate indication of the Part of Speech while the color of the button on the other hand signifies how textually similar is the selected sonnet to the others (detected by an algorithm !). Hover over a button to view additional information. The sonnet currently selected - Sonnet 86 is most textually similar to Sonnet 7 (18.66 %).
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 lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.