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

(after Queneau)

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
That on himself such murderous shame commits.

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