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.
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
His tender heir might bear his memory:
The world will be thy widow and still weep
Find no determination: then you were
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
And threescore year would make the world away.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
This were to be new made when thou art old,
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

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