I am sure Neil intended to reply to the list.
Begin forwarded message:
> From: "Neil Pharazyn" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
> Date: April 10, 2008 12:56:29 PM JST
> To: "Philippe Wittenbergh" <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
> Subject: Re: [css-d] @media print height units
> X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1914
>
> Thanks Philippe
> I hope I've now got the class selector correct in the complete HTML
> page
> code below as <body class="A4">
>
> However, if you run this HTML page you'll see that it still doesn't
> achieve
> what I want, which is to limit the number of pages of content
> printed out.
> In this case there are two A4 pages of content. It prints both pages
> despite my body.A4 saying not print anything past 29.7cm, which is
> one A4
> sheet length. Maybe overflow doesn't work for printing, or cm isn't
> recognised, or who knows what????
>
> Any ideas?
>
> Regards
>
> Neil Pharazyn
>
> ***********************************************************************
>
> <html>
> <head>
> <title>overflow_print_test.htm</title>
> <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;
> charset=iso-8859-1">
> <meta name="generator" content="BBEdit 7.1.4">
>
> <style type="text/css">
>
> p
> {
> font-family: Times New Roman, Times, serif;
> font-size: 12px;
> line-height: 115%;
> margin: 10px;
> }
>
>
> @media print {
> body {
> height:100px;
> width:100px;
> overflow:hidden;
> }
> }
>
> @media print {
> body.A3 {
> height:42cm;
> overflow:hidden;
> }
> body.A4 {
> height:29.7cm;
> overflow:hidden;
> }
> }
>
> </style>
> </head>
>
> <body class="A4">
>
> <table width="100%" border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"
> name="holdit">
> <tr id="masterContainer" valign="top" align="left">
> <td width="33%">
>
> <p>column 1<br><br>
> 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.
> 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 totter'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.
> III
> 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 unear'd 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, remember'd not to be,
> Die single and thine image dies with thee.
> IV
> 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.
> V
> 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 distill'd, though they with winter meet,
> Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
> VI
> 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.
> VII
> 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, thyself outgoing in thy noon
> Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.
> VIII 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.
> 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 totter'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.
> <br><br>
> end
> </p>
> </td>
> <td width="33%">
> <p> column 2</p>
> </td>
> <td width="33%">
> <p> column 3</p>
> </td>
>
> </tr>
> </table>
> </body>
> </html>
>
>>
>
Philippe
---
Philippe Wittenbergh
http://l-c-n.com/
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