Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled. Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place With beauty’s treasure ere it be self-killed. That use is not forbidden usury Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That’s for thyself to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one. Ten times thyself were happier than thou art If ten of thine ten times refigured thee; Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity? Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir. William Shakespeare
There is too much math in this sixth sonnet. Ten times happier, ten times refigured. Ten of me? That's a nightmare to forget. Be who you are - that is the adventure. No one else can do it for you. You are the sweet vial, and so pour yourself out. Winter's ragged hand produces summer's star- shooting and shining joy, mischief, and doubt. Refigure doubt into faith, and ten times happier you'll be. That's math you can count on. How you imprint the world; what chimes you sound is up to you. Be your own fan. Creating another you is not fated Your beauty cannot be duplicated.
"That's math you can
count on.."
You made a math joke! In a sonnet!