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

(after Queneau)

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Will play the tyrants to the very same
His tender heir might bear his memory:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'

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