Counting

Counting is the process of determining the number of elements of a finite set of objects; that is, determining the size of a set. The traditional way of counting consists of continually increasing a (mental or spoken) counter by a unit for every element of the set, in some order, while marking (or displacing) those elements to avoid visiting the same element more than once, until no unmarked elements are left; if the counter was set to one after the first object, the value after visiting the fin

11 quotes found

"One, two, buckle my shoe; Three, four, knock at the door; Five, six, pick up sticks; Seven, eight, lay them straight; Nine, ten, a big fat hen; Eleven, twelve, dig and delve; Thirteen, fourteen, maids a-courting; Fifteen, sixteen, maids in the kitchen; Seventeen, eighteen, maids in waiting; Nineteen, twenty, my plate's empty."

"The king was in his counting-house, Counting out his money;"

"Ford carried on counting quietly. This is about the most aggressive thing you can do to a computer, the equivalent of going up to a human being and saying “Blood...blood...blood...blood...”"

"If thou dost the number know Of the leaves on every bough, If thou can’st the reckoning keep Of the sands within the deep; Thee of all men will I take, And my Love’s accomptant make."

"Sooner may you count the starres, And number hayle downe pouring, Tell the Osiers of the Temmes, Or Goodwins Sands devouring, Then the thicke-showr’d kisses here Which now thy tyred lips must beare."

"Can there be any day but this, Though many sunnes to shine endeavour? We count three hundred, but we misse: There is but one, and that one ever."

"Whoe’er the number would define Of sports and joys that shall be thine, He first must count the grains of sand That spread the Erythræan strand, And every star and twinkling light That stud the glistening arch of night."

"In Riemann, Hilbert or in Banach space Let superscripts and subscripts go their ways. Our asymptotes no longer out of phase, We shall encounter, counting, face to face."

"Count the bees that on Hybla are playing, Count the flow’rs that enamel its fields, Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying, Or the grain that rich Sicily yields; Go number the stars in the heaven, Count how many sands on the shore, When so many kisses you’ve given I still shall be craving for more."

"Let’s number out the hours by blisses, And count the minutes by our kisses;"

"When I do count the clock that tells the time,"