11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets(after Queneau)When I do count the clock that tells the time,That thereby beauty's rose might never die, Against this coming end you should prepare, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; For never-resting time leads summer on Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? That's for thyself to breed another thee, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine Resembling sire and child and happy mother Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
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