11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets(after Queneau)As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growestAnd dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; The world will be thy widow and still weep Resembling strong youth in his middle age, That's for thyself to breed another thee, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. For having traffic with thyself alone, Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are Leaving thee living in posterity? Pity the world, or else this glutton be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
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