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

(after Queneau)

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
From his low tract and look another way:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

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