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

(after Queneau)

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

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