11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets(after Queneau)O, that you were yourself! but, love, you areThat thou consumest thyself in single life? Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Resembling strong youth in his middle age, They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds Which to repair should be thy chief desire. Then of thy beauty do I question make, If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence You had a father: let your son say so. |