11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets(after Queneau)Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd: Will play the tyrants to the very same Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase: Without this, folly, age and cold decay: That's for thyself to breed another thee, Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are What acceptable audit canst thou leave? This were to be new made when thou art old, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
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