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

(after Queneau)

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Find no determination: then you were
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
No love toward others in that bosom sits
Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'

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