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

(after Queneau)

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
When I behold the violet past prime,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
Make thee another self, for love of me,
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

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