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

(after Queneau)

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

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