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

(after Queneau)

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Will play the tyrants to the very same
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
You had a father: let your son say so.

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