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Nay, my lord-mayor, with merriment possest, What makes that girl with hideous visage stare? Will break his nap, and laugh among the rest, What fiends prevent Fad's journey to the fair?? and jog the altermen to hear the jest.

Why all this noise, this bustle and this rout?
“Oh, nothing but poor master has the gout."

Meantime, superior to the pains below,
Your thoughts in soaring meditations flow,

In rapturous trance on Virgil's genius dwell,
INVITATION TO MR. DODINGTON'. To us, poor mortals, his strong beauties tell,

And, like Æneas, from your couch of state, IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, BOOK I. EP. Y. In all the pomp of words display the Trojan fate. If Dodington will condescend

Can nothing your aspiring thoughts restrain ?

Or does the Muse suspend the rage of pain ? To visit a poetic friend,

Awhile give o'er your rage; in sickness prove And leave a numerous bill of fare,

Like other mortals, if you'd pity move: For four or five plain dishes here;

Think not your friends compassionate can be, No costly welcome, but a kind

When such the product of disease they see;
He and his friends will always find;

Your sharpest pangs but add to our delight,
A plain, but clean and spacious room,
The master and his heart at hoine,

We'll wish you still the Gout, if still you write.
A cellar open as his face,
A dinner shorter than his grace;
Your mutton comes froin Pirnpern-down,

WRITTEN IN THE FOLDS OF 4 PIN. Your fish (if any) from the town; Our rogues, indeed, of late, o'eraw'd,

PAPER. By human laws, not those of Coil,

Op old, a hundred Cyclops strore No venison steal, or none they bring.

To forge the thunderbolt for Jove; Or sent it all to master King?;

I tov employ a hundred hands, And yet, perhaps, some venturous spark

And travel through as many lands. May bring it, now the nights are dark.

A head I have, though very small, Punch I have store, and beer beside,

But then I have no brains at all. And port that's gnod, though frenchified.

The miser locks me up with care,
Then, if you come, I'm sure to get

Close as his money, all the year.
From Fastbery :-
I-a desert-of wit.

When John and Joan are both at strife,
One line, good sir, to name the day,

'Tis I find money for the wife. And your petitioner will pray, &c.

At court I make the ladies sline,
I grace ev'n gracious Caroline :

Anil, though I often take my way

Thrvugh town and country, land and sea,
I'm neither fish, nor flesh, nor herring,

And now I live with goody Verring
Among the well-bred natives of our isle,
“ I kiss your hand, sir,” is the modish style ;
In humbler manner, as my fate is low,

I beg to kiss your venerable toc,
old lafallibility can have

Profounder reverence from its meanest slave.
What dignity attends the solemn gout !

Exigua crescit de glande altissima quercus, What conscious greatness if the heart be stout ! Et tandem patulis surgit in astra comis: Methinks I see you o'er the house preside, Dumque anni pergunt, crescit latissima moles; In painful majesty and decent pride,

Mox secat æquoreas bellica navis æquas. With leg tost high, on stately sofa sit,

Angliacis hinc fama, salus hinc nascitur oris, More like a sultan than a modern wit;

Et glans est nostri præsidium imperii. Quick at your call the trembling slaves appear,

TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING, BY MR. PITT. Advance with caution, and retire with fear; Ev'n Peggy trembles, though (or authors fail)


com a small acor, see! the oak arise, At times the anti-salic laws prevail.

Supremely tall, and towering in the skies !
Now, " Lord have mercy on poor Dick !” say I;
“ Where's the lac'd shoe-who laid the fannel by ?" Another serrant of Mr. Pitt.
Within 'tis hurry, the house seems possest;

? Blandford fair; two miles from Pimpem, Mr. Without, the horses wonder at their rest.

Pitt's rectory, where he was born, and where he What terrible dismay, what scenes of care ! died, April 13, 1748, aged 48. See his epitaph in Why is the sooty Mintrem's hopeful heir

Hutchins's Dorset, I. 82. N. Before the morning-dawn compell’d to rise,

JA seller of pins at Blandford. Pitt. And give attendance with his half-shut eyes ! * See this ingenious young gentleman's verses to

the memory of Mr. Hughes, in vol. X. He was Created Lord Melcombe in 1761.

second son of John Duncombe, Esq. of Stocks; and * The Blandford carrier.

died at Merton College, Oxford, where he was * Mr. Dodington's seat at that time.

a gentleman commoner, Dec. 26, 1730, in the * Mr. Pitt's servant, the son of a blacksmith. twentieth year of his age. N.



Queen of the groves! her stately head she rears, Oh! no; at such a melancholy scene,
Her bulk increasing with increasing years : . The poet echoes back hor woes again.
Now moves in poinp, majestic, o'er the decp, Each weeping Muse should minister relief,
While in her womb ten thousand thunders sleep. From all the moving eloquence of grief.
Hence Britain boasts her far-extended reign, Each, like a Niobe, his fate bemoan,
And by the expanded acorn rules the main. Melt into tears, or harden into stone.

From dark obscurity his virtues save,
And, like pale specters, hover round bis grave,

With them the marble should due measures


Relent at every sigh, at every accent weep.

Britannia mourn thy hero, nor refuse

'To vent the sighs and sorrows with the Muse : Ye sacred Spirits! while your friends distress'd

Oh ! let thy rising groans load every wind,

Nor let one sluggish accent lag behind. Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the bless'd;

Thy heavy fate with justice to deplore, O let the pensive Muse inscribe that stone,

Convey a gale of sighs from shore to shore. And with the general sorrows inix her own :

And thou, her guardian angel, widely spread The'pensive Muse!—who, from this mournful hour, Thy golden wings, and shield the mighty dead. Shall raise her voice, and wake the string no more! Brood o'er his ashes, and illustrious dust, of love, of duty, this last pledge receive;

And sooth with care the venerable ghost. "Tis all a brother, all a son can give.

To guard the nobler relics, leave a while
The kind protection of thy favourite isle:
Around his silent tomb, thy station keep,

And, with thy sister-angel, learn to weep. DEATH OF THE LATE EARL STANHOPE. And cool with streams of tears his sacred un

Ye sons of Albion, o'er your patriot mour, HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE COUNTESS OF STANHOPE. His wondrous virtues, stretch'd to distant shores,

Demand all Europe's tears, as well as yours. At length, grim Fate, thy dreadful triumphs cease: Nature can't bring in every period forth, Lock up the tomb, and seal the grave in peace.” A finish'd hero of exalted worth,

Whose godlike genius, towering and sublime, Now from thy riot of destruction breathe, Must long lie ripening in the womb of time : Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant Death : Before a Stanhope enters on the stage, Too mean's the conquest which thy arms bestow, The birth of years, and labour of an age. 1oo mean to sweep a nation at a blow.

In field, and council, born the palm to share, No, thy unbounded triumpbs higher run,

His voice a senate, as his sword a war: And seem to strike at all mankind in one;

Aud each illustrious action of his life,
Since Stanhope is thy prey, the great, the brave, Conspire to form the patriot, and the chief :
A nobler prey was never paid the grave.

On either side, unite their blended rays,
We seem to feel from this thy daring crime, And kindly mingle in a friendly blaze.
A blank in nature, and a pause in time.

Stand out, and witness this, unhappy Spain,
He stood so bigh in reason's towerig sphere, Lift up to view the mountains of thy slain :
As high as man unglorify'd could bcar.

Tell how thy heroes yielded to their fear, In arms, and eloquence, like Cæsar, shone When Stanhope rouz'd the thunder of the war : So bright, tbat each Minerva was his own.

With what fierce tumults of severe delight How could so vast a fund of leaming lie

Th' impetuous hero plung'd into the fight. Shut up in such a short mortality?

How he the dreadful front of Death dcfac'd, One world of science nobly traveli'd n'er,

Pour'd on the foe, and laid the battle waste. Like Philip's glorious son, he wept for more. Did not his arm the ranks of war deform,

And now, resign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs, And point the hovering tumult where to storm?, With drooping heads, unstring their golden lyres, Did not his sword through legions cleave his way, Wrapt in a cloud of grief, they sigh to view Break their dark squadrons, and let in the day Their sacred image laid by Death so low :

Did not he lead the terrible attack, And deep in anguish sunk, on Stanhope's fate, Push Conquest on, and bring her bleeling back? Begin to doubt their own immortal state.

Throw wide the scenes of horrour and despair, But hold, my Muse, thy mournful transport errs, The tide of conflict, and the stream of war? Hold here, and listen to Lucinda's tears,

Bid.yellow Tagus, who in triumph roll'd While thy vain sorrows echo to his tomb,

Till then his turbid tides of foaming gold, Behold a sight that strikes all sorrow dumb: Boast his rich channels to the world no more, Behold the partner of his cares and life,

Since all his glittering streams, and liquid ore, Bright in her tears, and beautiful in grief.

Lie undistinguish'd in a flood of gore. Shall then in vain those streams of sorrow flow, Bid his charg'd waves, and loaded billows sweep, Drest up in all the elegance of woe?

Thy slaughter'd thousands to the frighted deep. And shall the kind officious Muse forbear

Confess, fair Albion, how the listening throng Toanswer sigh for sigh, and tell out tear for tear? Dwelt on the moving accents of his tongue.

In the sage council seat him, and confess Robert Pitt, A. M. his eldest brother. See Thy arm in war, thy oracle in peace : the Latin inscription, in Hutchins's Dorset, vol. I. How here triumphant too, his nervous sepse

Bore off the palm of manly eloquence :

p. 83.


The healing balm to Albion's wounds apply'd, Oh! choak thy griefs, thy rising sighs suppress,
And charm'd united factions to bis side:

Nor let thy sorrows violate his peace.
Fix'd on his sovereign's head the nodding crown, This rage of anguish, that distiains relief,
And propp'd the tottering basis of the throne, Dims his bright jovs, with some allay of grief.
Supported bravely all the nation's weight,

Look on his dearest pledge he left behind,
And stood the public Atlas of the state.

And see how Nature, bountiful and kind, Sound the loud trumpet, let the solemn knell Stainps the paternal image on liis mind. Bid with due horrour his great soul farewel. Oh! may th' hereditary virtucs run Tune every martial instrument with care,

In fair succession, to adora the son ; At once wake all the harmony of war.

The last best hopes of Albion's realms to grace, Let each sad hero in procession go,

And form the hero worthy of his race: And swell the vast solemnity of woe.

Some means at last by Britain may be found, Neglect the yew, the mournful eypress leave, To dry her tears, and close her bleeding wound. And with fresh laurels strew the warrior's grave. And if the Muse through future times can see, There they shall rise, in honour of his name, Fair youth, thy father shall revive in thee: Grow green with victory, and bloom with fame. 'Thou shalt the wondering nation's hopes engage,

Lo! from his azure throne, old father Thames To rise the Stanhope of the future age., Sigus through his foods, and groans from all his

streams :
O'er his full urn he droops his reverend head,
And sinks down deeper in bis oozy bed,

As the sad pomp proceeds along his sides,
O'ercharg'd with sorrow, pant his heaving tides.
Low in his humid palace laid to mourn,

Beneath this stone the world's just wonder lies, With streams of tears, the god supplies bis urn. Who, while on Earth, had rang'd the spacious skies; Within his channels he forgets to flow,

Around the stars his active soul had flown, And pours o'er all his bounds the deluge of his woe. And seen their courses finish'd ere his own : But see, my Muse, if yet thy ravish'd sight Now he enjoys those realms he could explore, Can bear that blaze, that rushing stream of light; And finds that Heaven he knew so well before. Where the great hero's disencumber'd soul, He through more worlds his victory pursued Springs from the Earth to reach her native pole. Than the brave Greek could wish to have subdued ; Boldiy she quits th' abandon'd cask of clay, In triumph ran one vast creation o'er, Freed from her chains, and towers th’ ethereal Then stodp'd,—for Nature could afford no more. Soars o'er th' eternal funds of hail and snow, (way: With Cæsar's speed, young Ammon's noble pride, And leaves heaven's stormy magazines below. He came, saw, vanquish'd, wept, return'd, and died. Thence through the vast profound of heaven she And measures all the concave of the skies: (flies, Secs where the planetary worlds advance, Orb above orb, and lead the starry dance.

Nor rests she there, but, with a bolder flight,

Explores the undiscover'd realms of light.
Where the fix'd orbs, to deck the spangled pole,

In state around their gaudy axles roll.

'Tis said, dear sir, no poets please the town, Thence his aspiring course in triumph steers, Who drink mere water, though from Helicon : Beyond the golden circles of the spheres ;

For in cold blood they seldom boldly think; Into the Heaven of Heavens, the seat divine,

Their rhymes are more insipid than their drink. Where Nature never drew her mighty line.

Not great Apollo could the train inspire, A region that excludes all tinie and place,

Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire. And shuts creation from th' unbounded space :

Warm'd by two gods at once they drink and write, Where the full tides of light in oceans tlow, Rhyme all the day, and fuddle all the night. And see the Sun ten thousand worlds below.

Homer, says Horace, nods in many a place, So far from our inferior orbs disjoin'd,

But hints, he nodded oftner o'er the glass. The tir'd imagination pants bebind.

Inspir'd with wine old Ennius sung and thought Then cease thy painful flight, nor venture more, With the same spirit, that his heroes fought : Where never Muse has stretch'd her wing before.

And we from Jonson's tavern-laws divine, Thy pinions tempt immortal heights in vain, That bard was no great enemy to wine. That throw thee fluttering back to Earth again.

'Twas from the bottle King derived his wit, On Earth a while, blest shade, thy thoughts em

Drank till he could not talk, and then he writ. And steal one moment from eternal joy. [ploy, Let no coif'd serjeant touch the sacred juice, While there, in Heaven, immortal songs inspire But leave it to the bards for better use: Thy golden strings, and tremble on the lyre,

Let the grave judges too the glass forbear, Which raise to nobler strains, th' angelic choir. Who never sing and dance but once a year. Look down with pity on a mortals lays,

This truth once known, our poets take the hint, Who strives, in vain, to reach thy boundless praise : Get drunk or mad, and then get into print : Who with low verse profanes thy sacred name, To raise their flames indulge the mellow fit, Lost in the spreading circle of thy fame.

And lose their senses in the seach of wit : Thy fame, which, like thyself, is mounted high,

And when with claret fir'd they take the pen, Wide as thy Heaven, and lofty as thy sky.

Swear thy can write, because they drink, like Ben. And thou, his pious consort, here below, Lavish of grief, and prodigal of woe :

Late Bishop of London.

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Such mimic Swift or Prior to their cost,

A soul, where depth of sense and fancy moet; For in the rash attempt the fools are lost.

A judgment brighten'd by the beams of wit,
W'hen once a genius breaks through common rules, Were ever yours,-be what you were before,
He leads an herd of initating fools.

Be still yourself; the world can ask no more.
If Pope, the prince of poets, sick a-bed,
O'er steaming coffee bends his aching head,
The fools in public o'er the fragrant draught
Incline those heads, that never ach'd or thought.

This must provoke his mirth or his disdain,
Cure his complaint,--

A well-known vase of sovereign use I sing,
---or inake him sick again.
I too, like them, the poet's path pursue,

Pleasing to young and old, and Jordan hight, And keep great Flaccus ever in my view;

The lovely queen, and eke the haughty king But in a distant view-yet what I write,

Snatch up this vessel in the murky night: In these loose sheets, must never see the light;

Ne lives there poor, ne lives there wealthy wight, Epistles, odes, and tweoty trifles more,

But uses it in mantle brown or green; Things that are born and die in half an hour.

Sometimes it stands array'd in glossy white;
“What! you must dedicate," says sneering Spence, of China's fragile earth, with azure flowrets sheena

And eft in mighty dortours may be seen
“This year some new performance to the prince :
Though money is your scorn, no doubt in time, The virgin, comely as the dewy rose,
You hope to gain some vacant stall by rhyme; Here gently sheds the softly-whispering rill ;
Like other poets, were the truth but known,

The frannion, who ne shame ne blushing koors,
You too admire whatever is your own."

At once the potter's glossy vase does fill;
These wise remarks my modesty confound,

It whizzes like the waters from a mill.
While the laugh rises, and the mirth goes round; Here frouzy housewives clear their loaded reins;
Vext at the jest, yet glad to shun a fray,

The beef-fed justice, who fat ale doth swill,
I whisk into my coach, and drive away.

Grasps the round-handled jar, and tries, and

Wbile slowly dribbling down the scanty water


The dame of Fraunce shall without shame convey PREFIXED TO THE ESSAY ON POPE'S ODYSSEY.

This ready needment to its proper place;

Yet shall the daughters of the lond of Fay Tis donem-restor'd by thy immortal pen,

Learn better amenaunce and decent grace; The critic's noble name revives again;

Warm blushes lend a beauty to their face, Once more that great, that injur'd name we see For virtue's comely tints their cheeks adorn; Shine forth alike in Addison and thee.

Thus v'er the distant hillocks you may trace Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feast, The purple beamings of the infant morn : And feed on scraps refus'd by every guest;

Sweet are our blooming maids--the sweetest creaFrom the old Thracian dog' they learn'd the way

tures born. To snarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey. None but their husbands or their lovers true As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they

They trust with management of their affairs; feel,

Nor even these their privacy may view, Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will,

When the soft beavys seek the bower by pairs: Such their inverted taste, that we expect

Then from the sight accoy'd, like timorous hares, For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect ;

From mate or bellamour alike they fly ; [airs, So the fell snake rejects the fragrant fowers,

Think not, good swain, that these are scornful But every poison of the field devours.

Think not for hate they shun thine amorous eye, Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,

Soon shall the fair return, nor done thee youth, to You read your poet with a poet's flame ;

dye. With his, your generous raptures still aspire; The critic kindles when the bard's on fire.

While Belgic frows across a charcoal store

(Replenish'd like the Vestal's lasting fire) slove, But when some lame, some limping line demands The friendly succour of your healing hands;

Brea for whole years, and scorcb'd the parts of The feather of your pen drops balm around,

No longer parts that can delight inspire,

Erst cave of bliss, now monumental pyre ;
And plays, and tickles, while it cures the wound.
While Pope's imntortal labour we survey,

O British maid, for ever clean and neat,
We stand all dazzled with excess of day,

From whom I aye will wake my simple lyrt, Blind with the glorious blaze;--to vulgar sight

With double care preserve that dun retreat, 'Twas one bright mass of undistinguish'd light;

Fair Venus' mystic bower, Dan Cupid's feather'd

But like the towering eagle, you alone
Discern'd the spots and splendours of the Sun. So may your hours soft-sliding steal away,
To point out faults, yet never to offend :

Unknown to gnarring slander and to bale,
To play the critic, yet preserve the friend ;

O'er scas of bliss peace guide her gondelay, A life well spent, that never lost a day;

Ne bitter dole impest the passing gale. An easy spirit, innocently gay ;

O! sweeter than the lilies of the dale, A strict integrity, devoid of art;

In your soft breasts the fruits of joyance grow. The sweetest manners, and sincerest heart;

Ne fell despair be here with visage pale,

Brave be the youth from whom your bosoms glow, 'Zoilus, so called by the ancients. Ne other joy but you the faithful striplings know.

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Where hills adorn the mansion they defend ? EPISTLE TO J. PITT, ESQ.

Where could he better answer Nature's end? IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK 1.

Here from the sea the melting breezes rise,

Unbind the snow, and warın the wintry skies :

Here gentle gales the dog-star's heat allay,
To all my trifles you attend,

And softly breathing cool the sultry day. .
But drop the critic to indulge the friend,

How free from cares, from dangers and affright,
And with most Christian patience lose your time,

In pleasing dreams I pass the silent night!

Does not the variegated marble yield
To hear me preach, or pester you with rhyme.
Here with my books or friend I spend the day,

To the gay colours of the flowery field ?

Can the New-river's artifieial streams,
But how at Kingston pass your hours away?

Or the thick waters of the troubled Thames,
Say, shall we see some plan with ravish'd eyes,

In many a winding rusty pipe convey'd,
Some future pile in miniature arise ?

Or dash'd and broken down a deep cascade,
(A model to excel in every part

With our clear silver streams in sweetness vie,
Judicious Jones, or great Palladio's art)

That in eternal rills run bubbling by ;
Or some new bill, that, when the house is met,

In dimples o'er the polish'd pebbles pass,
Shall claim their thanks, and pay the nation's debt?

Glide o'er the sands, or glitter through the grass &
Or have you studied in the silent wood
The sacreil duties of the wise and good ?

And yet in town the country prospects please,

Where stately colonades are tank d with trees :
Nature, who forin'd you, nobly crowu'd the whole

On a whole country looks the master down
With a strong body, and as firm a soul :

With pride, where scarce five acres are his own.
The praise is yours to finish every part
With all th' einbellishinents of taste and art.

Yet Nature, though repell’d, maintains her part,

And in her turn she triumphs over art;
Some see in canker'd heaps their riches rollid,

The hand-maid now may prejudice our taste,
Your bounty gives new lustre to your gold.

But the fair mistress will prevail at last.
Could your dear father hope a greater bliss,

That man must smart at last whose puzzled sight
Or your surviving parent more than this?

Mistakes in life false colours for the right ;
Than such a sona lover of the laws,
And ever true to honour's glorious cause :

As the poor dupe is sure his loss to rue,
Who scorns all parties, thongh by parties sought: The wretch, whose frantic pride kind Fortune

Who takes a Pinchbeck guinea for a true. (crowns,
Who greatly thinks, and truly speaks his thought: Grows twice as abject when the goddess frowns ;
With all the chaste severity of sense,

As he, who rises when his head turns round,
Truth, judgment, wit, and manly eloquence.

Must tumbie twice as heavy to the ground.
So in bis youth great Cato was rever'd,

Then love not grandeur, 'tis a splendid curse;
By Pompey courted, and by Cæsar fear'd:
Both he disdain'd alike with godlike pride,

The more the love, the harder the divorce.

We live far happier by these gurgling springs, For Rome and Liberty he liv'd-and dy'd.

Than statesmen, courtiers, counsellors, or kings In each perfection as you rise so fast,

The stag expell’d the courser from the plain;
Well may you think each day may be your last.

What can be do?-he begs the aid of man;
Uncommon worth is still with fate at strife,

He takes the bit and proudly bears away
Still inconsistent with a length of life.
The future time is ever in your power,

His new ally; he fights and wins the day :

But, ruin'd by success, he strives in vain
Then 'tis clear gain to seize the present hour;

To quit his master and the curb again.
Break from the serious thought, and laugh away

So from the fear of want most wretches fly,
In Pimpern walls one idle easy day.

But lose their noblest wealth, their liberty ;
You'll find your rhymning kinsman well in case,
For ever fix'd to the delicious place.

To their imperious passions they submit,
Tho' not like I with corpulence o'ergrown,

Who mount, ride, spur, but never draw the bit.

'Tis with your fortune, Spence, as with your shoe, For he has twenty Cures, and I but one.

A large may wrench, a small one wring your too
Then bear your fortune in the golden mean,

Not every man is born to be a dean.

I'll bear your jeers, if ever I am known

To seek two cures, when scarce I merit one.

Riches, 'tis true, some service may afford,

But oftner play the tyrant o'er their lord.
Health from the bard who loves the rural sport, Money I scorn, but keep a little still,
To the more noble bard that haunts the court :

To pay my doctor's, or my lawyer's bill.
In every other point of life we chime,

From Encombe's soft romantic scenes I write,
Like too soft lines when coupled into rhyme.

Deep sunk in ease, in pleasure and delight ;
I praise a spacious villa to the sky,

Yet, though her gen'rous lord himself is here,
You a close garret full five stories high ;

'Twould be one pleasure more, could you appear.
I revel here in Nature's varied sweets,
You in the nobler scents of London streets.
I left the court, and here at ease reclin'd,
Am happier than the king who staid behind : INVITATION TO A FRIEND AT COURT.
Twelve stifling dishes I could scarce live o'er,

At home I dine with luxury on four.

you can leave for books the crowded court, Where would a man of judgement chuse a seat,

And generous Bourdeaux for a glass of port,

To these sweet solitudes without delay
Put in a wholesome, rural, soft retreat,

Break from the world's impertinence away.

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