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

(after Queneau)

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

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