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

(after Queneau)

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
But as the riper should by time decease,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
You had a father: let your son say so.

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