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

(after Queneau)

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Against this coming end you should prepare,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
From his low tract and look another way:
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

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