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Problems with posting using huge messages resolved

Discussion in 'Forum announcements' started by dRD, Apr 19, 2012.

  1. dRD

    dRD I hate titles Staff Member

    Jun 10, 1999
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    During the past couple of weeks, we have experienced some problems on our servers when users have tried to post huge (>20kb) messages to our discussion forums. These issues have been apparent especially with HjT logs and other log posts.

    Now, we believe that these problems have been resolved. As an added bonus, posting of even smaller forum messages such be significantly faster now, too.

    However, if you experience problems, please contact us directly via our feedback forum.
    Last edited: Oct 8, 2012
    rajatsharma0918 likes this.
  2. ddp

    ddp Moderator Staff Member

    Oct 15, 2004
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    spammer spammed.
  3. Sophocles

    Sophocles Senior member

    Mar 1, 2003
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    I would say this qualifies as a "huge message." So will it post?:D


    by William Shakespeare

    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.

    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.

    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.

    Unthrifty loveliness why dost thou spend,
    Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
    Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
    And being frank she lends to those are free:
    Then beauteous niggard why dost thou abuse,
    The bounteous largess given thee to give?
    Profitless usurer why dost thou use
    So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
    For having traffic with thy self alone,
    Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive,
    Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
    What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
    Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
    Which used lives th' executor to be.

    Those hours that with gentle work did frame
    The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
    Will play the tyrants to the very same,
    And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
    For never-resting time leads summer on
    To hideous winter and confounds him there,
    Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
    Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:
    Then were not summer's distillation left
    A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
    Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
    Nor it nor no remembrance what it was.
    But flowers distilled though they with winter meet,
    Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.

    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 thy self to breed another thee,
    Or ten times happier be it ten for one,
    Ten times thy self 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.

    Lo in the orient when the gracious light
    Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
    Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
    Serving with looks his sacred majesty,
    And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
    Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
    Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
    Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
    But when from highmost pitch with weary car,
    Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,
    The eyes (fore duteous) now converted are
    From his low tract and look another way:
    So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon:
    Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.

    Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
    Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
    Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
    Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
    If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
    By unions married do offend thine ear,
    They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
    In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear:
    Mark how one string sweet husband to another,
    Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
    Resembling sire, and child, and happy mother,
    Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
    Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
    Sings this to thee, 'Thou single wilt prove none'.

    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.

    For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any
    Who for thy self art so unprovident.
    Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
    But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
    For thou art so possessed with murd'rous 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:
    O change thy thought, that I may change my mind,
    Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
    Be as thy presence is gracious and kind,
    Or to thy self at least kind-hearted prove,
    Make thee another self for love of me,
    That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

    As fast as thou shalt wane so fast thou grow'st,
    In one of thine, from that which thou departest,
    And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
    Thou mayst call thine, when thou from youth convertest,
    Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase,
    Without this folly, age, and cold decay,
    If all were minded so, the times should cease,
    And threescore year would make the world away:
    Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
    Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
    Look whom she best endowed, she gave thee more;
    Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
    She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
    Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

    When I do count the clock that tells the time,
    And see the brave day sunk in hideous night,
    When I behold the violet past prime,
    And sable curls all silvered o'er with white:
    When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
    Which erst from heat did canopy the herd
    And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
    Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard:
    Then of thy beauty do I question make
    That thou among the wastes of time must go,
    Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
    And die as fast as they see others grow,
    And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
    Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence.

    O that you were your self, but love you are
    No longer yours, than you your self here live,
    Against this coming end you should prepare,
    And your sweet semblance to some other give.
    So should that beauty which you hold in lease
    Find no determination, then you were
    Your self again after your self's decease,
    When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
    Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
    Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
    Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
    And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
    O none but unthrifts, dear my love you know,
    You had a father, let your son say so.

    Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
    And yet methinks I have astronomy,
    But not to tell of good, or evil luck,
    Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality,
    Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell;
    Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
    Or say with princes if it shall go well
    By oft predict that I in heaven find.
    But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
    And constant stars in them I read such art
    As truth and beauty shall together thrive
    If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:
    Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
    Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

    When I consider every thing that grows
    Holds in perfection but a little moment.
    That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
    Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.
    When I perceive that men as plants increase,
    Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky:
    Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
    And wear their brave state out of memory.
    Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,
    Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
    Where wasteful time debateth with decay
    To change your day of youth to sullied night,
    And all in war with Time for love of you,
    As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

    But wherefore do not you a mightier way
    Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time?
    And fortify your self in your decay
    With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
    Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
    And many maiden gardens yet unset,
    With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
    Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
    So should the lines of life that life repair
    Which this (Time's pencil) or my pupil pen
    Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
    Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
    To give away your self, keeps your self still,
    And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.

    Who will believe my verse in time to come
    If it were filled with your most high deserts?
    Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
    Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
    If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
    And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
    The age to come would say this poet lies,
    Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.
    So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
    Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
    And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,
    And stretched metre of an antique song.
    But were some child of yours alive that time,
    You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.

    Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
    And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
    And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
    By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
    But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
    Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
    Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
    When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

    Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws,
    And make the earth devour her own sweet brood,
    Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
    And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood,
    Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
    And do whate'er thou wilt swift-footed Time
    To the wide world and all her fading sweets:
    But I forbid thee one most heinous crime,
    O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
    Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen,
    Him in thy course untainted do allow,
    For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
    Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
    My love shall in my verse ever live young.

    A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
    Hast thou the master mistress of my passion,
    A woman's gentle heart but not acquainted
    With shifting change as is false women's fashion,
    An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling:
    Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth,
    A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
    Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
    And for a woman wert thou first created,
    Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,
    And by addition me of thee defeated,
    By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
    But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure,
    Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

    So is it not with me as with that muse,
    Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
    Who heaven it self for ornament doth use,
    And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
    Making a couplement of proud compare
    With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems:
    With April's first-born flowers and all things rare,
    That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
    O let me true in love but truly write,
    And then believe me, my love is as fair,
    As any mother's child, though not so bright
    As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
    Let them say more that like of hearsay well,
    I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

    My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
    So long as youth and thou are of one date,
    But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
    Then look I death my days should expiate.
    For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
    Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
    Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me,
    How can I then be elder than thou art?
    O therefore love be of thyself so wary,
    As I not for my self, but for thee will,
    Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary
    As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
    Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
    Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.

    As an unperfect actor on the stage,
    Who with his fear is put beside his part,
    Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
    Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
    So I for fear of trust, forget to say,
    The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
    And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
    O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might:
    O let my looks be then the eloquence,
    And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
    Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
    More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
    O learn to read what silent love hath writ,
    To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

    Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
    Thy beauty's form in table of my heart,
    My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
    And perspective it is best painter's art.
    For through the painter must you see his skill,
    To find where your true image pictured lies,
    Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
    That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes:
    Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done,
    Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
    Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
    Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
    Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
    They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

    Let those who are in favour with their stars,
    Of public honour and proud titles boast,
    Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars
    Unlooked for joy in that I honour most;
    Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
    But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
    And in themselves their pride lies buried,
    For at a frown they in their glory die.
    The painful warrior famoused for fight,
    After a thousand victories once foiled,
    Is from the book of honour razed quite,
    And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:
    Then happy I that love and am beloved
    Where I may not remove nor be removed.

    Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
    Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit;
    To thee I send this written embassage
    To witness duty, not to show my wit.
    Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
    May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it;
    But that I hope some good conceit of thine
    In thy soul's thought (all naked) will bestow it:
    Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
    Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
    And puts apparel on my tattered loving,
    To show me worthy of thy sweet respect,
    Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee,
    Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

    Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
    The dear respose for limbs with travel tired,
    But then begins a journey in my head
    To work my mind, when body's work's expired.
    For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
    Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
    And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
    Looking on darkness which the blind do see.
    Save that my soul's imaginary sight
    Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
    Which like a jewel (hung in ghastly night)
    Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
    Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
    For thee, and for my self, no quiet find.

    How can I then return in happy plight
    That am debarred the benefit of rest?
    When day's oppression is not eased by night,
    But day by night and night by day oppressed.
    And each (though enemies to either's reign)
    Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
    The one by toil, the other to complain
    How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
    I tell the day to please him thou art bright,
    And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
    So flatter I the swart-complexioned night,
    When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
    But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
    And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger

    When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
    I all alone beweep my outcast state,
    And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
    And look upon my self and curse my fate,
    Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
    Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
    Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
    With what I most enjoy contented least,
    Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
    Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
    (Like to the lark at break of day arising
    From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate,
    For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
    I summon up remembrance of things past,
    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
    And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
    Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow)
    For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
    And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
    And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.
    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
    And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
    The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
    Which I new pay as if not paid before.
    But if the while I think on thee (dear friend)
    All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

    Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
    Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
    And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
    And all those friends which I thought buried.
    How many a holy and obsequious tear
    Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
    As interest of the dead, which now appear,
    But things removed that hidden in thee lie.
    Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
    Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
    Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
    That due of many, now is thine alone.
    Their images I loved, I view in thee,
    And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.
  4. ps355528

    ps355528 Active member

    Aug 17, 2010
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    That's pretty huge.. I had to learn that at school.. dammit !!

    Trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro'
    you have no word
    trip, trip to a dream dragon
    hide your wings in a ghost tower
    sails cackling at every plate we break
    cracked by scattered needles
    the little minute gong
    coughs and clears his throat
    madam you see before you stand
    hey ho, never be still
    the old original favorite grand
    grasshoppers green Herbarian band
    and the tune they play is "In Us Confide"
    so trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro'
    you have no word
    Please leave us here
    close our eyes to the octopus ride!
    Isn't it good to be lost in the wood
    isn't it bad so quiet there, in the wood
    meant even less to me than I thought
    with a honey plough of yellow prickly seeds
    clover honey pots and mystic shining feed...
    well, the madcap laughed at the man on the border
    hey ho, huff the Talbot
    "Cheat" he cried shouting kangaroo
    it's true in their tree they cried
    Please leave us here
    close our eyes to the octopus ride!
    The madcap laughed at the man on the border
    hey ho, huff the Talbot
    the winds they blew and the leaves did wag
    they'll never put me in their bag
    the seas will reach and always seep
    so high you go, so low you creep
    the wind it blows in tropical heat
    the drones they throng on mossy seats
    the squeaking door will always squeak
    two up, two down we'll never meet
    so merrily trip forgo my side
    Please leave us here
    close our eyes to the octopus ride!
    Sophocles likes this.

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