11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets

(after Queneau)

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
When I behold the violet past prime,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

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