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

(after Queneau)

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

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