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

(after Queneau)

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
When every private widow well may keep
And threescore year would make the world away.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

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