ans = 
    "I
     
       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.
     
       "

ans = 
    "II 
      
       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 tatter'd 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 deserv'd 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. 
      
       "

ans = 
    "X 
      
       Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, 
       That thou consum'st thy self in single life? 
       Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die, 
       The world will wail thee like a makeless wife; 
       The world will be thy widow and still weep 
       That thou no form of thee hast left behind, 
       When every private widow well may keep 
       By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind: 
       Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend 
       Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; 
       But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, 
       And kept unused the user so destroys it. 
         No love toward others in that bosom sits 
         That on himself such murd'rous shame commits. 
      
       X 
      
       For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any, 
       Who for thy self art so unprovident. 
       Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many, 
       But that thou none lov'st is most evident: 
       For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate, 
       That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire, 
       Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate 
       Which to repair should be thy chief desire. 
     
      
       "

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str = 
    "THE SONNETS
     
     by William Shakespeare"