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

(after Queneau)

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
But as the riper should by time decease,
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
And die as fast as they see others grow;
Make thee another self, for love of me,
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'

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