f.py

# test_string = 1609
#
# THE SONNETS
#
# by William Shakespeare
#
#
#
#                      1
#   From fairest creatures we desire increase,
#   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
#   But as the riper should by time decease,
#   His tender heir might bear his memory:
#   But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
#   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
#   Making a famine where abundance lies,
#   Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
#   Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
#   And only herald to the gaudy spring,
#   Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
#   And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
#     Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
#     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
#
#
#                      2
#   When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
#   And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
#   Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
#   Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
#   Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
#   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
#   To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
#   Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
#   How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
#   If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
#   Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
#   Proving his beauty by succession thine.
#     This were to be new made when thou art old,
#     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
#
#
#                      3
#   Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
#   Now is the time that face should form another,
#   Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
#   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
#   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
#   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
#   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
#   Of his self-love to stop posterity?
#   Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
#   Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
#   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
#   Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
#     But if thou live remembered not to be,
#     Die single and thine image dies with thee.

# test_string = 1609
#
# THE SONNETS
#
# by William Shakespeare
#
#
#
#                      1
#   From fairest creatures we desire increase,
#   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
#   But as the riper should by time decease,
#   His tender heir might bear his memory:
#   But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
#   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
#   Making a famine where abundance lies,
#   Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
#   Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
#   And only herald to the gaudy spring,
#   Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
#   And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
#     Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
#     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
#
#
#                      2
#   When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
#   And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
#   Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
#   Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
#   Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
#   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
#   To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
#   Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
#   How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
#   If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
#   Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
#   Proving his beauty by succession thine.
#     This were to be new made when thou art old,
#     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
#
#
#                      3
#   Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
#   Now is the time that face should form another,
#   Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
#   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
#   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
#   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
#   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
#   Of his self-love to stop posterity?
#   Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
#   Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
#   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
#   Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
#     But if thou live remembered not to be,
#     Die single and thine image dies with thee.

# test_string = 1609
#
# THE SONNETS
#
# by William Shakespeare
#
#
#
#                      1
#   From fairest creatures we desire increase,
#   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
#   But as the riper should by time decease,
#   His tender heir might bear his memory:
#   But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
#   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
#   Making a famine where abundance lies,
#   Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
#   Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
#   And only herald to the gaudy spring,
#   Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
#   And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
#     Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
#     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
#
#
#                      2
#   When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
#   And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
#   Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
#   Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
#   Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
#   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
#   To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
#   Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
#   How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
#   If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
#   Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
#   Proving his beauty by succession thine.
#     This were to be new made when thou art old,
#     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
#
#
#                      3
#   Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
#   Now is the time that face should form another,
#   Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
#   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
#   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
#   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
#   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
#   Of his self-love to stop posterity?
#   Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
#   Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
#   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
#   Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
#     But if thou live remembered not to be,
#     Die single and thine image dies with thee.

# test_string = 1609
#
# THE SONNETS
#
# by William Shakespeare
#
#
#
#                      1
#   From fairest creatures we desire increase,
#   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
#   But as the riper should by time decease,
#   His tender heir might bear his memory:
#   But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
#   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
#   Making a famine where abundance lies,
#   Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
#   Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
#   And only herald to the gaudy spring,
#   Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
#   And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
#     Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
#     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
#
#
#                      2
#   When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
#   And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
#   Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
#   Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
#   Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
#   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
#   To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
#   Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
#   How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
#   If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
#   Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
#   Proving his beauty by succession thine.
#     This were to be new made when thou art old,
#     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
#
#
#                      3
#   Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
#   Now is the time that face should form another,
#   Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
#   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
#   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
#   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
#   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
#   Of his self-love to stop posterity?
#   Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
#   Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
#   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
#   Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
#     But if thou live remembered not to be,
#     Die single and thine image dies with thee.

# test_string = 1609
#
# THE SONNETS
#
# by William Shakespeare
#
#
#
#                      1
#   From fairest creatures we desire increase,
#   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
#   But as the riper should by time decease,
#   His tender heir might bear his memory:
#   But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
#   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
#   Making a famine where abundance lies,
#   Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
#   Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
#   And only herald to the gaudy spring,
#   Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
#   And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
#     Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
#     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
#
#
#                      2
#   When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
#   And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
#   Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
#   Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
#   Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
#   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
#   To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
#   Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
#   How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
#   If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
#   Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
#   Proving his beauty by succession thine.
#     This were to be new made when thou art old,
#     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
#
#
#                      3
#   Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
#   Now is the time that face should form another,
#   Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
#   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
#   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
#   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
#   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
#   Of his self-love to stop posterity?
#   Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
#   Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
#   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
#   Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
#     But if thou live remembered not to be,
#     Die single and thine image dies with thee.

# test_string = 1609
#
# THE SONNETS
#
# by William Shakespeare
#
#
#
#                      1
#   From fairest creatures we desire increase,
#   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
#   But as the riper should by time decease,
#   His tender heir might bear his memory:
#   But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
#   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
#   Making a famine where abundance lies,
#   Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
#   Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
#   And only herald to the gaudy spring,
#   Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
#   And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
#     Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
#     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
#
#
#                      2
#   When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
#   And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
#   Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
#   Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
#   Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
#   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
#   To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
#   Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
#   How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
#   If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
#   Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
#   Proving his beauty by succession thine.
#     This were to be new made when thou art old,
#     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
#
#
#                      3
#   Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
#   Now is the time that face should form another,
#   Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
#   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
#   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
#   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
#   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
#   Of his self-love to stop posterity?
#   Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
#   Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
#   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
#   Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
#     But if thou live remembered not to be,
#     Die single and thine image dies with thee.

# test_string = 1609
#
# THE SONNETS
#
# by William Shakespeare
#
#
#
#                      1
#   From fairest creatures we desire increase,
#   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
#   But as the riper should by time decease,
#   His tender heir might bear his memory:
#   But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
#   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
#   Making a famine where abundance lies,
#   Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
#   Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
#   And only herald to the gaudy spring,
#   Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
#   And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
#     Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
#     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
#
#
#                      2
#   When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
#   And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
#   Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
#   Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
#   Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
#   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
#   To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
#   Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
#   How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
#   If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
#   Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
#   Proving his beauty by succession thine.
#     This were to be new made when thou art old,
#     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
#
#
#                      3
#   Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
#   Now is the time that face should form another,
#   Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
#   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
#   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
#   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
#   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
#   Of his self-love to stop posterity?
#   Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
#   Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
#   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
#   Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
#     But if thou live remembered not to be,
#     Die single and thine image dies with thee.

# test_string = 1609
#
# THE SONNETS
#
# by William Shakespeare
#
#
#
#                      1
#   From fairest creatures we desire increase,
#   That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
#   But as the riper should by time decease,
#   His tender heir might bear his memory:
#   But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
#   Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
#   Making a famine where abundance lies,
#   Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
#   Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
#   And only herald to the gaudy spring,
#   Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
#   And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
#     Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
#     To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
#
#
#                      2
#   When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
#   And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
#   Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
#   Will be a tattered weed of small worth held:
#   Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
#   Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
#   To say within thine own deep sunken eyes,
#   Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
#   How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
#   If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
#   Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse'
#   Proving his beauty by succession thine.
#     This were to be new made when thou art old,
#     And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
#
#
#                      3
#   Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
#   Now is the time that face should form another,
#   Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
#   Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
#   For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
#   Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
#   Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
#   Of his self-love to stop posterity?
#   Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
#   Calls back the lovely April of her prime,
#   So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
#   Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
#     But if thou live remembered not to be,
#     Die single and thine image dies with thee.