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With well-tim'd oars, before the royal barge, Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay; Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge; Bur loads of Sh -almost choak'd the way. And, big with hymn, commander of an host, Bilk'd stationers for ycomen stood prepar'd, The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tofs'd. And Hon was captain of the guard. Methinks I see the new Arion fail,

The hoary prince in majesty appear'd, The lute still trembling underneath thy nail. High on a throne of his own labours rear'd, At thy well-Tharpen'd thumb, from thore to shore At his right hand our young Afcanius fat, The trebles squeak for fear, the baffes roar : Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. Echoes from Pilling-Alley Sh-call, His brows, thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, And Sh- they retound from Aston-Hall. And lambent Dulness play'd around his face. About thy boat the little fishes throng,

As Hannibal did to the altors come, As at the morning toast that Hoats along. Sworn by his lire a moral foe to kome; Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band, To Sh. swore, nor should his vow be vain, Thou wield'ft thy papers in thy threshing hand. That he, till death, true dulness would maintain ; St. Andre's feet nc'er kept more equal time, And, in his father's right, and realm's defence, Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme : Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with leble Though they in number as in sense excel; The king himself the sacred unction made, So just, so like Tautology they fell,

As king by office, and as priest by trade. That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore In his finiter hand, imtead of ball, The lute and sword which he in triumph bore, He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale; And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more. Love's kingdom to his right he did convey,

Here stopt the good old fire, and wept for joy, Aronce his sceptre, and his rule of sway ; In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.

Whose righteous lore the prince nad practis'd All argjiments, but most his plays, persuade,

young, That for anointed dulness he was made. And from whose loins recorded P!yche sprung: Clofe to the walls which fair Augufta bind His temples lait with poppies were-o'erspread, (The fair Augusta, much to fears inclin'd) That, nodding, fcem dtv confecrate his head. An ancient fabric, rais'd t'inform the fight, Just at the point of time, if fame not lye, There stood of yore and Barbican it hight: On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did iy. A watch-tow'r once; but now, fo fate ordains, So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, Of all the pile an empty peme remains : Presage of sway from ewicc fix vultures took. From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,

Th'admiring throng loud acclamations make, Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, And omens of his future empire take. Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets The fire then shook the honours of his head, keep,

And froin his brows damps of oblivion shed And undisturb'd by watch, in silence Neep. Full on the filial dulvets : long he stood, Near these a nursery ereéts its head,

Repelling from his brcalt the raging god; Where queens are form’d, and future heroes bred : At length burst out in this prophetic mood. Where un Hedg'd actors learn to laugh and cry, • Heavens blcis my fon, from Ireland let him Where infant punks their tender voices try, To far Barbadoes on the western main; Ereiga And little Maximins the gods defy.

Of his dominion

may no end be known, Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, And greater than his father's be his throne ; Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; Beyond Love's kingdom let him stretch his pen.' But gentle Simkin just reception finds

Ho paus'd, and all the people cried, Amen.
Amidst this monument of vanith'd minds : Then thus continued he : * My lon, advance
Pure clinches the suburbian mufe affords, Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
And Panton waging harmless war with words. Sncce!s let others teach ; learn thou, from me,
Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, Pangs without birth, and frujiless industry.
Ambitioully design'd his Sh's throne : Let Virtuosos in five years be writ;
For ancient Decker prophesied, long since, Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage;
Born for a scourge of wit, and Aail of lense: Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage ;
To whom true dulness should some Psyche's owe, Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
But worlds of. Mifers from his pen should flow; And, in their folly, thew the writer's wit.
Humorists and Hypocrites it should produce, Yet still thy fools' fhall stand in thy defence,
Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. And justify their author's want of sepse.
Now empress Fame had publish'd the renown Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of Sh- -'s coronation thro' the town.

Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid ;
Rous'd by report of Fame, the nations meet, That they to future ages may be known,
From near Bun-hill, and distant Watling-street; Not copies drawn, but iilue of thy own.
No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way, Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled pocts lay : All full of thee, and did 'ring but in name.
From dusty shops neglected authors coinc, But let no alien S-di-y interpose,
Martyrs of pyes, and relicks of the bum. To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.





And, when false flow'rs of Rhetoric thou wouldnt | Poets alone found the delightful way,
Trust Nature, do not labour to be dull: [cull, Mysterious morals gently to convey
But write thy best, and cop; and, in each line, In charming numbers ; so that, as men grew
Sir Formal's oratory will be thive:

-Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too. Sir Formal, tho' unfougit, attends thy quill,

Satire has always thone among the rest, And does thy Northern Dedications fill. And is the boldest way, if not the best, Nor let falte friends seduce tły mind to fame, To tell men freely of their fouleft faults ; By arrogating Jonton's hoftile name.

To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts. Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, In facire too the wise took diff'rent ways, And uncle Ogleby thy envy raile.

To each deserving its peculiar praife. Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part; Some did all folly with just sharpness blame, What share have we in nature or in art? Whilst others laugh’d, and scorn'd them into Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand,

Thame. And rail at arts he did not understand ?

But, of theic tivo, the last succeeded left, Where made he love in Prince Nicander's vein, As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest. Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble train ? Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides, Where sold he bargains, whip-stitch, kiss iny arse; And censure those who censure all besides, Promis'd a play, and dwindled ro a farce? In other things they justly are preferr'd; When did his muse from Fletcher icenes purloin, In this alone methinks the ancients err'd : As thou whole Eth'ridge dost transfuse to thine : Against the grottest follies they declaim; But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow; Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game. His always floats above, thine finks below. Nothing is easier than such blots to hit, This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,

And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit : New humours to invent for each new play :

Belides, 'tis labour loft ; for who would preach This is that boasted bias of thy mind,

Morals to Armstrong, or dull Alton teach? By which, one way, to duinets 'tis inclin'd: 'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball, Which makes thy writings lean on one side ftill, Or bringing wit and friendíhip to Whitehall. And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find, Nor let thy mountain-beily make pretence

Which lie obscurely in the wifest mind; Of likeness; thine 's a tympany of lente. That little speck which all the rest does spoil, Altun of man in thy large bulk is writ;

To wash off that, would be a noble toil;
But sure thou 'rt but a kildurhin of wit. Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;

Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage;
Thy tragic inule gives smiles; thy comic, sleep. Above all cenfure too, each little wit
With whate'er gall thou set it thyself to write, Will be fo glad to see the greater hit;
Thy inoffensive satires never bite.

Who judging better, though concern'd the most, In thy felonious heart though venom lies,

Of such correction will have cause to boast. It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.

In such a fatire all would seek a share, Thy genius calls thče not to purchase fame, And ev'ry fool will fancy he is there. la keen lambics, but miid Anagram.

Old story-tellers too must pine and die,
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command To fee their antiquated wit laid by ;
Some peaceful province in Acrostic lavd. Like her, who miss'd her name in a lampoon,

There thou mayst wings dilplay, and Itars raise, And griev'd to find herself decay'd so soon.
And torture one poor word tra thousand ways.

No common coxcoinb must be mention'd here: Or, if thou wouldst thy diff'rent talents suit,

Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear ; Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.' Nor flutt'ring officers who never fight: He said; but his last words were scarcely Of such a wretched rabble who would write ? heard ;

Much less half wits : that's inore against our rules; For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd, For they are fops, the other are but fools. And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. Who would not be as filly as Dunbar? Siriking, he left his drugget robe behind, As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr? Borne upwards by a subterrancan wind. The curining courtier should be slighted too, The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, Who with dull knav'ry makes so much ado; With double portion of his father's art.

Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,

Like Efop's fox, becomes a prey at last. § 31. An Ejay upon Satire.

Nor thall the royal mistrefies be nam'd,

Too ugly, or too ealy, to be blam'd;

With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a HOW dull and how insensible a beast

pother, Is who yet would lord it o'er the rest! They are as common that way as the other : Philosophers and poets vairly strove

Yet faunt’ring Charles, between his beast y In ev'ry age the lumpilh mass to move :

brace, But those were pedants, when compar'd with these, Meets with disembling still in either place, Who know not only to instruct but please. Affected humour, or a painted face.




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In loyal libels we have often told him, But is there any other beast that lives,
How one has jilted him, the other fold him ; Who his own harm so wittingly contrives ?
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep: Will any dog, that has his teeth and stones,
But who can rail so long as he can slecp? Refin’dly leave his bitches and his bones
Was ever prince by two at once milled, To turn a wheel > and bark to be employ'd,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur’d, and ill-bred! While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd ?
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Of buly blockheads, thall have here no place; Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame,
At council fet as foils on Dorset's score, Though fatire nicely writ no humour stings
To make that great false jewel thine the more ; But those who merit praise in other things;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wife, Yet we must needs this one exception make,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.

And break our rules for folly Tropos sake,
But there's nomeddling with such nauseous men; Who was too much despis’d to be accus'd,
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen: And therefore scarce deferves to be abus'd;
'Tis time to quit their company, and choose Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
Some fitter subject for a sharper Muse. For railing smoothly, and for reas'ning wrong.

First let's behold the merriest man alive As boys on holidays let loose to play Against his careless genius vainly strive; Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way, Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay, Then thout to see in dirt and deep distress 'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day: Some filly cit in her flower'd foolish dress; Yet he will laugh at his best friends; and be So have I mighty satisfaction found, Just as good company as Nokes and Lee. To see his tintcl reason on the ground: But when he aims at reason or at rule,

To see the florid fool despis’d, and know it, He turns himself the best to ridicule.

By some who scarce have words enough to thew it: Let him at bus'ness ne'er so earneft lit,

For senfe fita filent, and condemns for weaker Shew him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit; The finer, nay sometimes the wittiest speaker : That shadow of a jeft shall be enjoy'd, But 'tis prodigious so much eloquence Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd. Should be acquir'd by such little fente; So cat transform'd sat gravely and demure, For words and wit did anciently agree; Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure; And Tully was no fool, though this man be: But foon the lady had him in her eye,

Ac bar abusive, on the bench unable, And from her friend did just as oddly Ay. Snave on the woollack, fop at council-table. Reaching above our nature does no good; These are the grievances of such fools as would We must fall back to our old ftefh and blood; Be rather wife Utan honest, great than good. As, by our little Machiavel, we find

Some other kind of wits must be made known, That nimbleft creature of the busy kind, Whose harınleis errors hurt themselves alone; His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes; Excess of luxury they think can please, Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes, And laziness call loving of their eate; No pity of its poor companion takes.

To live diffolv'd in pleatures ftill they feign, What gravity can hold from laughing out, Though their whole life 's but intermitting pain: To fee him drag his feeble legs about,

So much of surfeits, head-achs, claps are seen, Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him ftill We scarce perceive the little time between ; Thro' hedges, ditches, and thro' all that's ill. Well-meaning men who makethis gross mistake, 'Twere crime in any man but him alone, And pleasure lose only for pleasure's lake; To use a body so, tho''ris one's own :

Each pleasure has its price; and when we pay Yet this fallé comfort never gives him o'er, Too much of pain, we fquander life away. That whilft hecreeps his vig'rous thoughts can soar: Thus Dorfet, purring like a thoughtful cat, Alas! that soaring, to thole few that know, Married; but wiser puis ne'er thought of that; Is but a busy grov'ling here below.

And firft he worried her with railing rhyme, So men in rapture think they mount the sky, Like Pembroke's mastiffs at his kindeft time; Whilston the groundth’entranced wretches lie: Then for one night told all his flavilh life, So modern fops have fancied they could fy. A teeming widow, but a barren wife; As the new carl with parts deferving praise, Swell'd by contact of such a fulsome toad, And wit enough to laugh at his own ways; He lugg'd about the matrimonial load; Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights, Till fortunc, blindly kind as well as he, Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune Nights; Has ill refior'd him to his liberty! Striving against his quiet all he can,

Which he would use in his old Ineaking way, For the fine notion of a busy man.

Drinking all right, and dozing all the day; And what is that, at beft, but one whose mind Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times Is made to tire himtelf and all mankind ? Had fam’d for dulness in malicious rhymes. For Ireland he would go ; 'faith, let him reign ; Mulgrave had much ado to’scape the snare, For if some odd fantastic lord would fain Tho' learn'd in all those arts that chear the fair; Carry in trunks, and all my drudg'ry do, For, after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, I'll not only pay him, but admire him soo. With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks;





Poeta loquitur.


my wit.

Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes, Who, for the wretched remnants of a fire,
To see him catch a tartar for his prize;

Muit toil all day in afhes and in mire.
Th' impatient town waited the with 'd-for change, So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
And cuckolds smild in hopes of liveet revenge; The wreiched texts deserve no comments here;
Till Perworth plot made us with sorrow fee, Where one poor thought sometimes, left all alone,
As his estate, his person too was free:

For a whole page of dullncís must atone. Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could more ; How vain a thing is man, and how unwise; To gold he fled from beauty and from love; Ev'n he who would himself the most defpifc! Yet failing there he keeps his freedom fill, I, who so wise and humble seem to be, Fored to live happily against his will:

Now my own vanity and pride can 't sce. 'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r While the world's nonsense is so sharply thewn, Break not his boasted quiet ev'ry hour. We pull down others but to raise our own : And little Sid, for simile renown'd,

That we may angels seem, we paint them elves, Pleasure has always sought, but never found : And are but fatires to set up ourselves. Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall, I (who have all this while been finding fault, His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all. Ev'n with my master, who first satire taught ; The Aesh he lives upon is rank and strong; And did by that de cribe the task so hard, His meat and mistresses are kept too long. It seems ftupendous and above reward) But sure we all mistake this pious man, Now labour with unequal force to climb Who mortifies his perfon all he can:

That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time; What we uncharitably take for fin,

'Tis just ihat I should to the bottom fall; Are only rules of this odd capuchin :

Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
For never herinit, under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense ;
And 'tis a miracle, we may suppose,

§ 32. Cymon and Iphigenia. DRYDEN. No nastiness offends his skilful nole; Which from all stink can with peculiar art OL

LD as I am, for ladies' love unfit, Extract perfume, ard essence from a f-ti

The pow'r of beauty I remember yet, Expecting supper is his great delight;

Which once inflam'd my soul, and fill inspires He toils all day but to be drunk at night: Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits, If love be folly, the vere divine Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits. Has felt that folly, though he censures mine; Rocheiter i despise for want of wit,

Poilutes the pleasures of a chaste embrace, Though thought io have a tail and cloven feet; Acts what I write, and propagates in grace, For, while he mischief means to all mankind, With riotous excess, a prielily race. Himself alone the ill effcets does find :

Suppose him free, and that I forge th' offence, And so like witches juftly suffers shame, He Ihew'd the way, perverting first my sense; Whose harmless malice is so much the same. In malice witty, and with venom fraught, Falle are lis words, affected is his wit ; He makes me speak the things I never thought. So often he does aim, so seldom hit;

Compute the gains of his ungovern'd zeal; To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks, Ill luits his cloth the praise of railing well. But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks: The world will think that what we loosely write, Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry linb, Though now arraign'd, he read with some delight; Manners themselves are mischievous in him : Because he seems to chew the cud again, A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry creature

When his broad comment makes the text too A very Killigrew, without good-nature.

plain; For what a Bessus has he always liv’d,

And teaches more in one explaining page And his own kickings notably contriv*d ! Than all the double-meanings of the stage. For there's the folly that 's till mix'd with fear, What needs he paraphrale on what we mean? Cowards more blows than any hero bear; We were at worst but wanton ; he's obscene. Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say, I not my fellows nor myself excuse; But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:

But love's the subject of the comic Muse; The world may well forgive him all his ill, Nor can we write without it, nor would you For ev'ry fault does



fill: A tale of only dry instruction view;
Falsely he falls into some dang'rous noose, Nor love is always of a vicious kind,
And then as mcanly labours to get loole : But oft to virtuous acts inflames the mind;
A life so infamous is better quitting,

Awakes the sleepy vigour of the soul, Spent in base injury and low submitting. And, brushing-o'er, adds motion to the pool. I'd like to have left out his poetry ;

Love, studious how to please, improves our parts Forgot by all almost as well as me.

With polith'd manners, and adorns with arts. Sometimes he has some humour, never wit : Love first invented verse, and form’d the rhyme, And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,

The motion measur'd, harmoniz'd the chimne ; 'Tis under fo niuch 'nasty rubbish laid,

To lib'ral acts cnlarg'd the narrow-foul'd, To find is out 's the cinderwoman's trade ; Soften'd the fierce, and made the coward bold ;


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The world, when waste, he peopled with increase, Than by the charming features of her face,
And warring nations reconcil'd in peace. And ev'n in sumber a superior grace :
Ormond, the first, and all the fair may find, Her comely limbs compos d with decent care,
In this one legend, to their farne design'd, Her body shaded with a light cymair;
When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts Her botom to the view was only bare :
the mind.

Where two beginning paps were scareely spied,
IN that fiveet ille where Venus keeps her court,


yet their places were but fignified : And ev'ry grace, and all the loves, refort;

The fanning wind upon her botom blows, Where either sex is form’d of softer earth, To meet the fanning wind the bolom role ; And takes the bent of pleasure from their birth: The fanning wind, and purling streams, conThere liv'd a Cyprian lord above the rest

tinue her repose. Wise, wealthy, with a num'ious issue bleft:

The fool of nature stood with ftupid eyes, But, as no gift of fortune is fincere,

And gaping mouth that testified surprise, Was only wanting in a worthy heir.

Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his fight, His eldest born, a goodly youth to view,

New as he was to love, and novice to delight: Excell'd the rest in thape and outward low; Long mute he stood, and, leaning on his ftaff, Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join'd,

His wonder witness’d with an idiot laugh; But of a heavy, dull, degen'rate mind.

Then would have fpcke, but by his glimm'ring His soul' belied the features of his face;

sense Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace :

First found his want of words, and fear'd offence: A clownish mien, a voice with ruftic found,

Doubted for what he was he should be known, And stupid eyes that ever lov’d the ground.

By his clown accent, and his country tone. He look'd like nature's error; as the mind

Through the rude chaos thus the running light And body were not of a piece design’d, [join'd.

Shot the first ray that pierc'd the native night: But made for two, and by mistake in one were

Then day and darkneis in the mass were mixd, The ruling rod, the father's forming care, Till gather'd in a globe the beams were fixd: Were exercis'd in vain on wit's detpair ;

Last Ihone the fun, who, radiant in his sphere, The more inform'd, the less he understood;

Illumin’d hcaven and earth, and roll'd around the And deeper tunk by flound'ring in the mud.

So reason in this brutal soul began, [year. Now scorn d of all, and grown the public Mame, Love made him first suspect he was a man; The people from Galesus chang’d his name,

Love made him doubt his broad barbarian sound; And Cymon call’d, which fignifies a brute;

By love his want of words and wit he found; So well his name did with his nature fuit.

That fente of want prepar'd the future way His father, when he found his labour loft, To knowledge, and disclos 'd the promise of a day. And care employ'd that answer'd not the cust,

What not his father's care, por tutor's art, Chose an ungrateful object to remove,

Could plant with pains in his unpolith'd heart, And loath'd io see what nature made him love; The best instructor, lore, at once inspir'd, So to his country farm the fool confin'd; As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fir'd: Rude work well suited with a rustic inind. Love taught him shame; and thame, with love at Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went, Soon taught the sweet civilities of life; (ftrife, A 'quire among the swains, and pleas’d with His grols material soul at once could find banishment.

Somewhat in her excelling all her kind: His corn and cattle were his only care,

Exciting a defire till then unknown, And his supreme delight a country fair.

Somewhat unfound, or found in her alone.
It happen'd on a summer's holiday,

This made the first impreffion on his mind,
That to the green-wood thade he took his way; Above, but just above, the brutal kind.
For Cymon Thunn'd the church, and us'd not For beasts can like, but nor distinguith too,
much to pray:

Nor their own liking by reflection know;
His quarter-staff, which he could nc'er forsake, Nor why tiey likcor this or t' other face,
Hung half before, and half behind his back. Or judge of this or that peculiar grace;
He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought, But love in gross, and stupidly admire :
And whistled as he went for want of thought. As flies allur'd by light approach the fire.

By chance conducted, or by thiiit constrain'd, Thus our man-beaft, advancing by degrees, The decp receffes of the grove he gainid; First likes the whole, then separates what he sees : Where, in a plain defended by the wood, On sev'ral parts a lev'ral praise bestows : Crept thro' the matted grass a crystal Houd, The ruby lips, the well-proportion'd nose, By which an alabafter fountain stocd :

The snowy skin, and raren-glossy hair, And on the margin of the fount was laid The dimpled cheek, and forehead rising fair, (Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid. And, ev'n in sleep itself, a smiling air. like Dian'avd her nymphs, when, tir’d with From thence his eyes deftending view'd the reft, sport,

Her plump round arms, white hands, and heav. To rest by cool Eurotas they resort: The dame herself the goddess well express’d, Long on the latt he dwelt, though every part Not more distinguish'd by her purple veít, A pointed arrow sped to pierce his heart.




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