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AN

TO THE SMALL POXL.

so may the king proclaime your conscience is Against a multitude; and (with thy stile [while Law to his law; and thinke your enemies his : So brightly brandish'd) wound'st, defend'st! the 10, from all sicknesse, may you rise to health, Thy adversaries fall, as not a word The care and wish still of the publike wealth, They had, but were a reed unto thy sword, So may the gentler Muses, and good fame Then com'st thou off with victorie and palme, Still fie about the odour of your name;

Thy hearers nectar, and thy clients balme, As with the safetie, and honour of the lawes, The court's just honour, and thy judge's love. You favour truth, and me, in this man's cause. And (which doth all atchievements get above)

Thy sincere practise breeds not thee a fame

Alone, but all thy ranke a reverend name.
ANOTHER TO HIM'.
Tas judge his farour timely then extends,
When a good cause is destitute of friends,
Without the pompe of counsell, or more aide,

EPIGRAM.
Then to make falshood blush, and fraud afraid :
When those good few, that her defenders be,
Are there for charitie, and not for fee.
Zuch shall you heare to day, and find great foes

Envious and foule disease, could there not be Both arm's with wealth and slander to oppose,

One beautie in an age, and free from thee? Who thus long safe, would gaine upon the times

What did she worth thy spight? were there not store Aright by the prosperitie of their crimes;

Of those that set by their false faces more Who, though their guilt and perjarie they know,

Then this did by her true ? she never sought l'binke, yea and boast, that they have doue it so

Quarrell with Nature, or in ballance brought As, though the court pursues them on the sent,

Art her false servant ; nor, for sir Hugh Plot, They will come of, and scape the punishment:

Was drawne to practise other hue, then that When this appeares, just lord, to your sharp sight, Her owne bloud gave her: she ne're had, nor hath He does you wrong, that craves you to doe right. Any beliefe, in madam Baud-bee's bath,

Or Turner's oyle of talck. Nor ever got
Spanish receipt, to make her teeth to rot.
What was the cause then ? thought'st thou, in dis-
Of beautie, so to nullifie a face,

[grace AN EPIGRAM

That Heaven should make no more; or should amisse,

Make all hereafter, bad'st thou ruin'd this?
TO THE COUNCELLOUR THAT PLEADED AND CARRIED THE

I, that thy ayme was; but her fate prevail'd:
And scorn'd, thou’ast showne thy malice, but hast

fail'd.
That I hereafter doe not thinke the barre,
The seat made of a more then civill warte;
Or the great hall at Westminster, the field
Where mutuall frauds are fought, aud no side yeild;

AN EPITAPH.
That benceforth I beleeve nor bookes, nor men,
Who'gainst the law weave calumpies, my-

What beautie would have lovely stilde,
But when I read or heare the names so rife What manners prettie, nature milde,
Of hirelings, wranglers, stitchers-to of strife, What wonder perfect, all were fild
Hook-handed harpies, gowned vultures, put Upon record in this blest child.
Upon the reverend pleaders; doe now shut

And, till the comming of the soule
All mouthes, that dare entitle them (from hence)

To fetch the flesh, we keepe the roll.
To the wolves studie, or dogs eloquence;
Thou art my cause : whose inanders since I knew,
Have made me to conceive a lawyer new.
So dost thou studie matter, men, and times,

A SONG,
Mak'st it religion to grow rich by crimes !
Dar'st not abuse thy wisdome in the lawes,
Or skill to carry out an evill cause !

Come, let us here enjoy the shade,
But first dost vexe, and search it! If not sound,

For love in shadow best is made.
Thou pror'st the gentler wayes, to clense the wound, Though envie oft his shadow be,
And make the scarre faire ; if that will not be, None brookes the sun-light worse then he.
Thou hast the brave scorne, to put back the fee!
But in a businesse, that will bide the touch,
What use, what strength of reason! and how much Where love doth sbine, there needs no sunne,
Of bookes, of presidents, hast thou at hand ? All lights into his one doth run;
As if the generail store thou didst command Without which all the world were darke;
Of argument, still drawing forth the best,

Yet he himselfe is but a sparke.
And not being borrowed by thee, but possest.
So com'st thou like a chiefe into the court
Arm'd at all peeces, as to keepe a fort

A sparke to set whole world a-fire,
Who more they busne, they more desire,

And have their being, their waste to see ;
For a poore man.

And waste still, that they still might be,

CAUSE.

LOVER,

MISTRES.

ARBITER.

1 CRORUS.

And fills my powers with perswading joy, Such are his powers, whom time hath stild,

That you should be too noble to destroy. Now swift, now'slow, now tame, now wild ;

There may some face or menace of a storme Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild ;

Looke forth, but cannot last in such a forme. The eldest god, yet still a child.

If there be pothing worthy you can see
Of graces, or your mercie, here in me,
Spare your owne goodnesse yet; and be not great
Jn will and power, only to defeat.

God, and the good, know to forgive, and save;
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. The ignorant, and fooles, po pittie bave.

I will nor stand to justifie my fault,
Sir, I am thankfull, first to Heaven, for you;

Or lay the excuse upon the vintner's vault;
Next to your selfe, for making your love true: Or in confessing of the crime be nice,
Then to your love, and gift. And all's but due. Or goe about to countenance the vice,

By naming in what companie 'twas in,
You have unto my store added a booke,

As I would urge authoritie for sinne. On which with profit I shall never looke,

No, I will stand arraign'd, and cast, to be But must confesse from whom what gift I tooke, The subject of your grace in pardoning me,

And (stild your mercie's creature) will live more Not like your countrie-neighbours, that commit Your honour now, then your disgrace before. Their vice of loving for a Christmasse fit ;

Thinke it was frailtie, mistris, thinke me man, Which is indeed but friendship of the spit : Thinkethat your selfe, like Heaven, forgive me cas:

Where weaknesse doth offend, and vertue griere, But, as a friend, which name your selfe receave, There greatnesse takes a glorie to relieve. And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave Thinke that I once was yours, or may be now, In letters, that mixé spirits, thus to weave. Nothing is vile, that is a part of you:

Ermour and folly in me may have crost Which, how most sacred I will ever keepe, Your just commands; yet those, not I, be lust. So may the fruitfull yine my temples steepe, I am regenerate now, become the child And Fame wake for me, when I yeeld to sleepe. Of your compassion; parents should be mild:

There is no father that for one demerit, Though you sometimes proclaime me too severe, Or two, or three, a sonne will dis-inherit, Rigid, and harsh, which is a drug austere

That is the last of punishments is meant; In friendship, I confesse: but deare friend, heare. No man inflicts that paine, till hope be spent :

An ill-affected limbe (what e're it aile) Little know they, that professe amitie,

We cut not off, till all cures else doe faile: And seeke to scant her comelie libertie,

And then with pause; for serer'd once, that's gone, How much they lame her in her propertie. Would live his glory, that could keepe it on.

Doe not despaire my mending; to distrust And lesse they know, who being free to use Before you prove a medicine, is unjust : That friendship which no chance but love did chuse, You may so place me, and in such an ayre, Will unto licence that faire leave abuse.

As not alone the cure, but scarre be faire.

That is, if still your favours you apply, It is an act of tyrannie, not love,

And not the bounties you ha' done, deny In practiz'd friendship wholly to reprove,

Could you demand the gifts you gave, againe ! As fatt'ry, with friends' humours still to move. Why was't? did e're the cloudesaske back their raine?

The Sunne his heat and light? the ayre bis des From cach of which I labour to be free,

Or winds the spirit, by which the flower so grew? Yet if with either's vice 1 teynted be,

That were to witber all, aud make a grave Forgive it, as my frailtje, and not me.

Of that wise Nature would a cradle have?

Her order is to cherish, and preserve,
For no man lives so out of passion's sway, Consumption's nature to destroy, and sterve.
Bat shall sometimes be tempted to obey

But to exact againe what once is given,
Her furie, yet no friendship to betray.

Is nature's meere obliquitie! as Heaven
Should aske the blood, and spirits he hath infus'd
In man, because man bath the flesh abus'd.
O may your wisdome take example hence,

God lightens not at man's each fraile offence,
AN ELEGIE.

He pardons, slips, goes by a world of ills,

And then his thunder frights more then it kills.
'Tis true, I'm broke ! vowes, oathes, and all I had He cannot angric be, but all must quake,
Of credit lost. And I am now run madde: It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake
Or doe upon my selfe some desperate ill; And how more faire, and lovely lookes the world
This sadnesse makes no approaches, but to kill. In a calme skie; then when the heaven is borld
It is a darknesse hath blockt up my sense, About in cloudes, and wrapt in raging weather,
And drives it in to eat on my offence,

As all with storme and tempest ran together.
Or there to sterve it. Helpe, O you that may O imitate that sweet serenitie
Alone lend succours, and this furie stays. 'oli That makes us live, not that which calls to die.
Offended mistris, you are yet so faire,

cort ist In darke and sullen mornes, doe we not say, As light breakes from you, that affrights despaire, This looketh like an execution day?

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ind with the vulgar doth it not obtaine

0, I prophane ! though most of women be The name of cruell weather, storme, and rajne? The common monster, love shall except thee, le not affected with these markes too much My dearest love, how ever jealousie, f crueltie, lest they doe make you such.

With circumstance might urge the contrarie. But view the mildnesse of your Maker's state, Sooner Ple thinke the Sunne would cease to chenre Is I tbe penitent's here emulate:

The teeming Earth, and that forget to beare; le, when he sees a sorrow such as this,

Sooner that rivers would run back, or Thames treight puts off all his anger, and doth kisse With ribs of ice in June would bind his streames : The contrite soule, who hath no thought to win Or Nature, by whose strength the world: ipdures, Jpon the hope to have another sin

Would change her course, before you alter yours: orgiven him; and in that lyre stand I,

But, O, that trecherous breast, to whom weake you Rather then once displease you more, to die,

Did trust our counsells, and we both may rue, so suffer tortures, scorne, and infamie,

Having his falshood found too late! 'twas he What fooles, and all their parasites can apply; That made me cast you guiltie, and you me. The wit of ale, and genius of the malt

Whilst be, black wretch, betray'd each simple word Can pumpe for; or a libell without salt

We spake, unto the comming of a third ! Produce; though threatning with a coale, or chalke Curst may be be that so our love hath slaine, On every wall, and sung where e're I walke. And wander wretched on the Earth, as Cain. [ number these as being of the chore

Wretched as he, and not deserve least pittie; Of contamelie, and urge a good man more In plaguing him let miserie be wittie; Then sword, or fire, or what is of the race

Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each'eye, To carry noble danger in the face:

Till he be noysome as his infamie; There is not any punishment, or paine,

May he without remorse deny God thrice, A man should Äie from, as he would disdaine. And not be trusted more on his soule's price; Then, mistris, here, bere let your rigour end, And after all selfe-torment, when he dyes, And let your mercie make me asham'd t' offend. May wolves teare out his heart, vultures bis eyes, I will no more abuse my vowes to you,

Swyne eat his bowels, and his falser tongue, Then I will studie falshood, to be true.

That utter'd all, be to some raven fung; O, that you could but by dissection see

And let his carrion corse be a longer feast How much you are the better part of me; To the king's dogs, then any other beast. How all my fibres by your spirit doe move, Now I have curst, let us our love receive; And that there is no life in me, but love.

In me the fame was never more alive. You would be then most confident, that tho' I could begin againe to court and praise, Publike affaires command me now to goe

And in that pleasure lengthen the short dayesi Ont of your eyes, and be awhile away;

Of my life's lease; like painters that doe take Absence, or distance, shall not breed decay. Delight, not in made workes, but whilst they make. Your forme shines here, here, fixed in my heart; I could renew those times, when first I saw 1 may dilate my selfe, but not depart.

Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law Others by common stars their courses run,

To like what you lik'd, and at masques, or playes, When I see you, then I doe see my sun,

Commend the selfe-same actors, the same wayes;
Till then 't is all but darknesse, that I have; Aske how you did, and often with intent
Rather then want your light, I wish a grave.

Of being officious, grow impertinent;
All which were such lost pastimes, as in these
Love was as subtly catch'd as a disease.
But, being got, it is a treasure, sweet,

Which to defend, is harder then to get;
AN ELEGIE.

And ought not be prophan'd on either part,

For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art. To make the doubt cleare, that no woman's true, Was it my fate to prove it full in you ? Thought I but one bad breath'd the purer ayre, And must she needs be false, because she's faire? Is it your beautie's marke, or of your youth,

AN ELEGIE. Or your perfection, not to studie truth? Or thinke you Heaven is deafe? or hath no eyes? That love's a bitter sweet, I ne're conceive, Or those it has, winke at your perjuries ?

Till the sower minute comes of taking leave, Are vowes so cheape with women? or the matter And then I taste it. But as men drinke up Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water, In haste the bottome of a med'cin'd cup, And blowne away with wind ? or doth their breath, And take some sirrup after; so doe I, Both hot and cold at once, threat life and death? To put all relish from my memorie Who could have thought so many accents sweet Of parting, drowne it in the hope to meet Tun'd to uur words, so many sighes should meet Shortly againe, and make our absence sweet. Blowne from our hearts, so many oathes and teares This makes me, mistris, that sometime by stealth Sprinkled among, all sweeter by our feares, Under another name, I take yonr health; And the devine impression of stolne kisses, And turne the ceremonies of those nights Tbat seal'd the rest, could now prove emptie blisses? I give, or owe my friends, into your rites, Did you draw bonds to forfeit? signe, to breake? But ever without blazon, or least shade Or must we read you quite from what you speake, Of vowes so sacred, and in silence made; And find the truth out the wrong way? or must For though love thrive, and may grow up with cheare, He first desire you false, would wish you just ? And free societie, he's bori else-where,

And must be bred, so to conceale his birth, Who shall forbid me then in rithme to be
As neither wine doe rack it out, or mirth.

As light and active as the youngest be
Yet should the lover still be ayrie and light

That from the Muses' fountaines doth indorse In all his actions, rarified to spright:

His lynes, and hourely sits the poet's horse. Not like a Midas shut up in himselfe,

Put on my ivy garland, let me see And turning all he toucheth into pelfe,

Who frownes, who jealous is, who taxeth me. Keepe in reserv'd in his dark-lanterne face, Fathers, and husbands, I doe claime a right As if that ex'lent dulnesse were love's grace;

In all that is call'd lovely: take my sight No, mistris, no, the open merrie man

Sooner then my affection from the faire Moves like a sprightly river, and yet can

No face, no hand, proportion, line, or ayre Keepe secret in his channels what he breedes, Of beautie, but the Muse hath interest in: 'Bove all your standing waters, choak'd with weedes. There is not worne that lace, purle, knot or pia, They looke at best like creame-bowles, and you soone But is the poët's matter : and he must, Shall find their depth: they 're sounded with a

When he is furious, love, although not lust. spoone.

But then content, your daughters and your wives They maysay grace, and for Love's chaplaines passe; (If they be faire and worth it) have their lives But the grave lover ever was an asse;

Made longer by our praises : or, if not, Is fix'd upon one leg, and dares not come

Wish you had fowle ones, and deformed got; Out with the other, for he's still at home;

Curst in their cradles, or there chang'd by elves, Like the dull wearied crane that (come on land) So to be sure you doe enjoy your selves. Doth while he keepes his watch, betray his stand: Yet keepe those up in sackcloth too, or lether, Where he that knowes will like a lapwing flie

For silke will draw some sneaking songster thither. Farre from the nest, and so himselfe belie

It is a ryming age and verses swarme To others, as be will deserve the trust

At every stall: the cittie cap's a charme. Due to that one, that doth believe him just.

But I who live, and have liv'd twentie yeare And such your servant is, who vowes to keepe

Where I may handle silke, as free, and neere, The jewell of your name, as close as sleepe As any mercer, or the whale-bone man Can lock the sense up, or the beart a thought,

That quilts those bodice I have leave to span ; And never be by time, or folly brought,

Have eaten with the beauties, and the wits, Weaknesse of braine, or any charme of wine,

And braveries of court, and felt their fits The sinne of boast, or other countermine,

Of love, and bate; and came so nigh to know (Made to blow up love's secrets) to discover

Whether their faces were their owne, or no: That article, may not become our lover :

It is not likely I should now looke downe Which in assurance to your brest I tell,

Upon a velvet petticote, or a gowne,
If I had writ no word, but, deare, farewell.

Whose like I'ave knowne the taylor's wife put on
To doe her husband's rites in, e're 'twere gone
Home to the customer: bis letcherie

Being, the best clothes still to preoccupie.
AN ELEGIE.

Put a coach-mare in tissue, must I borse

Her presently? or leape thy wife of force, Since you must goe, and I must bid farewell,

When by thy sordid bountie she hath on Heare, mistris, your departing servant tell

A gowne of that, was the caparison? What it is like: and doe not thinke they can

So I might dote upon thy chaires and stooles Be idle words, though of a parting man;

That are like cloath'd. Must I be of those fooles It is as if a night should shade noone-day,

Of race accompted, that no passion have Or that the Sun was here, but forc't away; But when thy wife (as thou conceiv'st) is brave? And we were left under that hemisphere,

Then ope thy wardrobe, thinke methat poore groome Where we must feele it darke for balfe a yeare.

That from the foot-man, when he was becoine What fate is this, to change men's dayes and houres, An officer there, did make most solemne love To shift their seasons, and destroy their powers !

To ev'ry petticote he brush'd, and glore Alas I ha' lost my heat, my blood, my prime, He did lay up, and would adore the shoe, Winter is come a quarter e're his time;

Or slipper was left off, and kisse it too, My health will leave me ; and when you depart,

Court every hanging gowne, and after that, How shall I doe, sweet mistris, for my heart?

Lift up some one, and doe, I tell not what. You would restore it? no, that's worth a feare, Thou didst tell me, and wert o're-joy'd to peepe - As if it were not worthy to be there:

In at a hole, and see these actions creepe [prose, O, keepe it still; for it bad rather be

From the poore wretch, which though he play'd in Your sacrifice, then here remaine with me.

He would have done in verse, with any of those And so I spare it, come what can become

Wrung on the withers by lord Love's despight, Of me, l'le softly tread upon my tombe;

Had he had the facultie to reade, and write! Or like a ghost walke silent amongst men,

Such songsters there are store of; witnesse he Till I may see both it and you agen.

That chanc'd the lace laid on a smock to see,
And straight-way spent a sonnet; with that other
That (in pure madrigall) unto his mother

Commended the French hood and scarlet gowne
AN ELEGIE.

The lady mayresse pass'd in through the towne, Let me be what I am, as Virgil cold,

Unto the Spittle sermon. O, what strange As Horace fat, or as Anacreon old;

Varietie of silkes were on th’ Exchange! No poet's verses yet did ever move,

Or in Moore-fields! this other night, sings one ; Whose readers did not thinke he was in love. Another answers, 'Lasse those silkes are none,

i smiling L'envoye, as he would deride

Thou mightst have had me perish piece by piece, ny comparison had with his Cheap-side.

To light tobacco, or save roasted geese, ind vouches both the pageant, and the day, Sindge capons, or poore pigges, dropping their cyes; Vhen not the shops, but windowes doe display Condemn'd me to the ovens with the pies; The stuffes, the velvets, plushes, fringes, lace, And so, have kept me dying a whole age, od all the originall riots of the place:

Not ravish'd all hence in a minute's rage. et the poore fooles enjoy their follies, love But that's a marke, whereof thy rites doe boast,

goat in velvet; or some block could move To make consumption, ever where thou go'st; Inder that cover; an old mid-wive's hat!

Had I fore-knowne of this thy least desire ir a close-stuole so cas'd;, or any fat

T have held a triumph, or a feast of fire, and in a velvet scabberd I I envy

Especially in paper; that that steame Jone of their pleasures ! nor will ask thee, why Had tickled your large nosthrill: many a reame hou 'rt jealous of thy wife's, or daughter's case : To redeeme mine, I had sent in enough, (stuffe. fore then of either's manners, wit, or face! Thou should'st have cry'd, and all beene proper

The Talmud, and the Alcoran had come,
With pieces of the legend; the whole summe

Oferrant knight-hood, with the dames, and dwarfes; AN EXECRATION UPON VULCAN. The charmed boates, and the enchanted wharfes,

The Tristrams, Lanc'lots, Turpins, and the Peers, Isd why to me this, thou lame lord of fire, All the madde Rolands, and sweet Oliveers; Vhat had I Jone that might call on thine ire? To Merlin's marfailes, and his Caball's losse, +r urge thy greedie flame, thus to devoure With the chimæra of the Rosie-crosse, o many my yeares-labours in an houre?

Their seales, their characters, hermetique rings, ne're attempted, Vulcan, 'gainst thy life; Their jemme of riches, and bright stone, that brings for made least line of love to thy loose wife; Invisibilitie, and strength, and tongues ; Ir in remembrance of thy afront, and scorne, The art of kindling the true coale by laugs; Vith clownes, and tradesmen, kept thee clos'd in With Nicholas Pasquill's Meddle with your match, horne.

And the strong lines, that so the time doe catch, T'was Jupiter that hurl'd thee beadlong downe, Or captaine Pamplet's horse and foot, that sallie und Mars that gave thee a lanthorne for a crowne: Upon th' Exchange, still out of Pope's-head-alley, Vas it because thou wert of old denied

The weekly Corrants, with Paul's Seale; and all y Jove to have Minerva for thy bride,

Th’admir'd discourses of the prophet Ball: hat since thou tak'st all envious care and paine, Tinese, had'st thou pleas'd either to dine or sup, 'o ruine any issue of the braine?

Had made a meale for Vulcan to lick up. lad I wrote treason there, or heresie,

But in my deske, what was there to accite
inposture, witchcraft, charmes, or blasphemie, So ravenous, and vast an appetite?
bad deserv'd then thy consuming lookes,

I dare not say a body, but some parts
Perhaps, to have beene burned with my bookes. There were of search, and mastry in the arts.
But, on thy malice, tell me, didst thou spie All the old Venusine, in poëtrie,
iny, least loose, or scurrile paper lie

And lighted by the Stagerite, could spie, Conceal'd, or kept there, that was fit to be, Was there mad English: with the grammar too, By thy owne vote, a sacrifice to thee?

To teach some that, their nurses could not doe, Did I there wound the honours of the crowne? The puritie of language; and among or taxe the glories of the church, and gowne? The rest, my jonrney into Scotland song, Itch to defame the state or brand the times? With all th' adventures; three bookes not afraid And my selfe most, in some selfe-boasting rimes? To speake the fate of the Sicilian maid If none of these, then why this fire? or find To our owne ladyes; and in storie there A cause before; or leave me one behind.

Of our fift Henry, eight of his nine yeare; Had I compild from Amadis de Gaule,

Wherein was oyle, beside the succour spent, Th' Esplandians, Arthurs, Palmerins, and all Which noble Carew, Cotton, Selden lent: The learned Jibrarie of Don Quixote;

And twice-twelve years stor'd up humanitie,
And so some goodlier monster har begot,

With humble gleanings in divinitie,
Or spun out riddles, and weav'd fiftie tomes After the fathers, and those wiser guides
Of logogriphes, and curious palindromes,

Whom faction had not drawne to studie sides. Or pump'd for those hard trifles anagrams, How in these ruines Vulcan, thou dost lurke, Or eteostichs, or those finer flammes

All soote, and embers! odious, as thy worke! Of egges, and halberds, cradles, and á herse, I now begin to doubt, if ever grace, A paire of scisars, and a combe in verse;

Or goddesse, could be patient of thy face. Acrostichs, and telestichs, on jumpe names, Thou woo Minerva! or to wit aspire ! Thou then hadst had some colour for thy flames, 'Cause thou canst halt with us in arts, and fire! On such my serious follies : but, thou 'st say,

Sonne of the wind! for so thy mother, gone There were some pieces of as base allay,

With lust, conceiv'd thee; father thou hadst none, And as false stampe there ; parcels of a play, When thou wert born, and that thou look’st at best, Fitter to see the fire-light, then the day;

She durst not kisse, but flung thee from her brest. Adulterate moneys, such as might not gue: and so did Jove, who ne're meant thee his cup : Thou should'st have stay'd, till publike fame said so. No marle the clownes of Lemnos tooke thee up; She is the judge, thou executioner;

For none but smiths would have made thee a god. Or if thou needs would'st trench upon her power, Some alchimist there may be yet, or odde Thou mightst have yet enjoy'd thy crueltie Squire of the squibs, against the pageant day, With some more thrift, and more varietie : May to thy name a Vulcanale say;

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