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Close groves, and opening glades with verdure
spread,

[bleed;
Flowers sighing sweets, and shrubs that balsam
With gay variety the prospect crown'd,
And all the bright horizon smiling round,
Whilst I attempt to tell how ancient Fame
Records from whence the villa took its name.
In times of old, when British nymphs were
known

To love no foreign fashions like their own;
When dress was monstrous, and fig-leaves the
And quality put on no paint but woad; [mode,
Of Spanish red unheard was then the name
(For cheeks were only taught to blush by shame);
No beauty, to increase her crowd of slaves,
Rose out of wash, as Venus out of waves;
Not yet lead-comb was on the toilet plac'd;
Not yet broad eye-brows were reduc'd by paste;
No shape-smith set up shop, and drove a trade
To mend the work wise Providence had made;
Tires were unheard of, and unknown the loom, 100
And thrifty silkworms spun for times to come;
Bare limbs were then the marks of modesty;
All like Diana were below the knee.

No mitred priest did then with princes vie, 150
Nor o'er his master claim supremacy;
Nor were the rules of faith allow'd more pure,
For being several centuries obscure.
None lost their fortunes, forfeited their blood,
For not believing what none understood.
Nor simony, nor sine-cure, were known;
Nor would the bee work honey for the drone.
Nor was the way invented, to dismiss
Frail Abigails with fat pluralities.

But then, in fillets bound, a hallow'd band 160
Taught how to tend the flocks, and till the land;
Could tell what murrains in what months begun,
And how the seasons travell'd with the Sun;
When his dim orb seem'd wading through the air,
They told that rain on dropping wings drew near;
And that the winds their bellow'ng throats would

try,

When reddening clouds reflect his blood-shot eye:
All their remarks on Nature's laws require
More lines than would even Alpin's readers tire.
This sect in sacred veneration held
170
Opinions, by the Samian sage reveal'd;
That matter no annihilation knows,
But wanders from these tenements to those;
For when the plastic particles are gone,
They rally in some species like their own;
The self-same atoms, if new-jumbled, will
In seas be restless, and in earth be still;
Can, in the truffle, furnish out a feast,
110 And nauseate, in the scaly squill, the taste.
Those falling leaves that wither with the year, 180
Will, in the next, on other stems appear.
The sap, that now forsakes the bursting bud,
In some new shoot will circulate green blood.
The breath to-day that from the jasmine blows,
Will, when the season offers, scent the rose;
And those bright flames that in carnations glow,
Ere long will blanch the lily with a snow.

The men appear'd a rough, undaunted race,
Surly in show, unfashion'd in address;
Upright in actions, and in thought sincere;
And strictly were the same they would appear.
Honour was plac'd in probity alone;
For villains had no titles but their own.
None travell'd to return politely mad;
But still what fancy wanted, reason had.
Whatever Nature ask'd, their hands could give;
Unlearn'd in feasts, they only eat to live.
No cook with art increas'd physicians' fees,
Nor serv'd up Death in soups and fricasees:
Their taste was, like their temper, unrefin'd;
For looks were then the language of the mind.

Ere right and wrong, by turns, set prices bore;
And conscience had its rate like common whore;
Or tools to great employments had pretence; 120
Or merit was made out by impudence;
Or coxcombs look'd assuming in affairs;
And humble friends grew haughty ministers;
In those good days of innocence, here stood
Of oaks, with heads unshorn, a solemn wood,
Frequented by the Druids, to bestow
Religious honours on the Misseltoe.

The naturalists are puzzled to explain
How trees did first this stranger entertain;
Whether the busy birds ingraft it there;
Or else some deity's mysterious care,

They hold that matter must be still the same,
And varies but in figure and in name;
And that the soul not dies, but shifts her seat, 190
New rounds of life to run, or past repeat.
Thus, when the brave and virtuous cease to live,
In beings brave and virtuous they revive.
Again shall Romulus in Nassau reign;
Great Numa, in a Brunswick prince, ordain
Good laws; and halcyon years shall hush the
world again.

The truths of old traditions were their theme; 130 Or gods descending in a morning dream.

As Druids thought; for, when the blasted oak
By lightning falls, this plant escapes the stroke.
So, when the Gauls the towers of Rome defac'd,
And flames drove forward with outrageous waste,
Jove's favour'd capitol uninjur'd stood:
So sacred was the mansion of a god.
Shades honour'd by this plant the Druids chose,
Here, for the bleeding victims, altars rose.
To Hermes oft they paid their sacrifice;
Parent of arts, and patron of the wise.
Good rules in mild persuasions they convey'd;
Their lives confirming what their lectures said.
None violated truth, invaded right;
Yet had few laws, but will and appetite.
The people's peace they studied, and profest
No politics but public interest.

140

Hard was, their lodging, homely was their food;
For all their luxury was doing good.

Pass'd acts they cited; and to come, foretold;
And could events, not ripe for fate, unfold: 200
Beneath the shady covert of an oak,

In rhymes uncouth, prophetic truths they spoke.
Attend then, Clare; nor is the legend long;
The story of thy villa is their song.

The fair Montano, of the sylvan race,
Was with each beauty bless'd, and every grace.
His sire, green Faunus, guardian of the wood;
His mother, a swift Naiad of the flood.
Her silver urn supply'd the neighbouring streams,
A darling daughter of the bounteous Thames. 210
Not lovelier seem'd Narcissus to the eye;
Nor, when a flower, could boast more fragrancy:
His skin might with the down of swans compare,
More smooth than pearl; than mountain-snow

more fair:

In shape so poplars or the cedars please;

But those are not so straight, nor graceful these:

His flowing hair in unforc'd ringlets hung;
Tuneful his voice, persuasive was his tongue;
The haughtiest fair scarce beard without a wound.
But sunk to softness at the melting sound.

220

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Sad-Echo now laments her rigour more,
Than for Narcissus her loose flame before.
Her flesh to sinew shrinks, her charms are filed;
All day in rifted rocks she hides her head.
Soon as the evening shows a sky serene,
Abroad she strays, but never to be seen.
And ever, as the weeping Naiads name
Her cruelty, the Nymph repeats the same;
With them she joins, her lover to deplore,
And haunts the lonely dales he rang'd before.
Her sex's privilege she yet retains;
And, though to nothing wasted, voice remains.
So sung the Druids then, with rapture fir'd,
Thus utter what the Delphic god inspir'd:

The fourth bright lustre had but just begun
To shade his blushing cheeks with doubtful down.
All day he rang'd the woods, and spread the toils,
And knew no pleasures but in sylvan spoils.
In vain the nymphs put on each pleasing grace;
Too cheap the quarry seem'd, too short the chase:
For, though possession be th' undoubted view,
To seize is far less pleasure than pursue.
Those nymphs, that yield too soon, their charms
And prove at last but despicably fair. [impair,
His own undoing glutton Love decrees;
And palls the appetite he meant to please:
His slender wants too largely he supplies;
Thrives on short meals, but by indulgence dies.
A grot there was, with hoary moss o'ergrown,
Rough with rude shells, and arch'd with moulder-Nor can the thunder of his sire do more.

ing stone;

Sad silence reigns within the lonesome wall,
And weeping rills but whisper as they fall;
The clasping ivies up the ruin creep,
And there the bat and drowsy beetle sleep.

This cell sad Echo chose, by love betray'd,
A fit retirement for a mourning maid.
Hither, fatigu'd with toil, the sylvan flies,
To shun the calenture of sultry skies;
But feels a fiercer flame: Love's keenest dart
Finds through his eyes a passage to his heart.
Pensive the virgin sate with folded arms,
Her tears but lending lustre to her charms.
With pity he beholds her wounding woes;
But wants himself the pity he bestows.

240

250

"Oh whether of a mortal born!" he cries;
"Or some fair daughter of the distant skies;
That, in compassion, leave your crystal sphere,
To guard some favour'd charge, and wander here:
Slight not my suit, nor too ungentle prove;
But pity one, a novice yet in love.
If words avail not; see my suppliant tears;
Nor disregard those dumb petitioners."

From his complaint the tyrant virgin flies,
Asserting all the empire of her eyes.

260

Full thrice three days he lingers out in grief,
Nor seeks from sleep, or sustenance, relief.
The lamp of life now casts a glimmering light;
The meeting lids his setting eyes benight.
What force remains, the hapless lover tries;
Invoking thus his kindred deities:

"Haste, parents of the flood, your race to

mourn;

270

With tears replenish each exhausted urn;
Retake the life you gave, but let the maid
Fall a just victim to an injur'd shade."
More he endeavour'd; but the accents hung
Half form'd, and stopp'd unfinish'd on his tongue."
For him the Graces their sad vigils keep;
Love broke his bow, and wish'd for eyes to weep.
What gods can do, the mournful Faunus tries;
A mount erecting where the sylvan lies.
The rural powers the wond'rous pile survey,
And piously their different honours pay.
Th' ascent with verdant herbage Pales spread;
And nymphs, transform'd to laurels, lent their
Her stream a Naiad from the basis pours; [shade.
And Flora strews the summit with her flowers.
Alone Mount Latmos claims pre-eminence,
When silver Cynthia lights the world from thence.

"Ere twice ten centuries shall fleet away,
A Brunswick prince shall Britain's sceptre sway.
No more fair Liberty shall mourn her chains;
The maid is rescu'd, her lov'd Perseus reigns,
From Jove he comes, the captive to restore;

Religion shall dread nothing but disguise;
And Justice need no bandage for her eyes.
Britannia smiles, nor fears a foreign lord;
Her safety to secure, two powers accord,
Her Neptune's trident, and her monarch's sword.
Like him, shall his Augustus shine in arms, 310
Though captive to his Carolina's charms,

Ages with future heroes she shall bless;

And Venus once more found an Albán race.

320

"Then shall a Clare in honour's cause engage:
Example must reclaim a graceless age.
Where guides themselves for guilty views mislead;
And laws even by the legislators bleed;
His brave contempt of state shall teach the proud,
None but the virtuous are of noble blood:
For tyrants are but princes in disguise,
Though sprung by long descents from Ptolemies.
Right he shall vindicate, good laws defend;
The firmest patriot, and the warmest friend.
Great Edward's order early he shall wear;
New light restoring to the sully'd star.
Oft will his leisure this retirement chuse,
Still finding future subjects for the Muse;
And, to record the sylvan's fatal flame,
The place shall live in song, and Claremont be

the name."

TO THE LADY LOUISA LENOS:
WITH OVID'S EPISTLES.

IN moving lines these few Epistles tell
What fate attends the nymph that likes too well:
How faintly the successful lovers bura;
And their neglected charms how ladies mourn.
The fair you'll find, when soft entreaties fail,
Assert their uncontested right, and rail.
Too soon they listen, and resent too late;
T is sure they love, whene'er they strive to hate.
Their sex or proudly shuns, or poorly craves;
Commencing tyrants, and concluding slaves.

In differing breasts what differing passions glow!
Ours kindle quick, but yours extinguish slow.
The fire we boast, with force uncertain burns,
And breaks but out, as appetite returns:
But yours, like incense, mounts by soft degrees,
And in a fragrant flame consumes to please.

Your sex, in all that can engage, excel;
And ours in patience, and persuading well.

Impartial Nature equally decrees:

You have your pride, and we our perjuries.
Though form'd to conquer, yet too oft you fall
By giving nothing, or by granting all.

But, madam, long will your unpractis'd years Smile at the tale of lovers' hopes and fears. Though infant graces sooth your gentle hours, More soft than sighs, more sweet than breathing flowers;

Let rash admirers your keen lightning fear; 'Tis bright at distance, but destroys if near.

The time ere long, if verse prèsage, will come, Your charms shall open in full Brudenell bloom. All eyes shall gaze, all hearts shall homage vow, And not a lover languish but for you. [crown'd, The Muse shall string her lyre, with garlands And each bright nymph shall sicken at the sound. So, when Aurora first salutes the sight, Pleas'd we behold the tender dawn of light; But, when with riper red she warms the skies, In circling throngs the wing'd musicians rise, And the gay groves rejoice in symphonies. Each pearly flower with painted beauty shines; And every star its fading fire resigns.

TO RICHARD EARL OF BURLINGTON, WITH OVID'S ART OF LOVE.

MY LORD,

OUR poet's rules, in easy numbers, tell,
He felt the passion he describes so well.
In that soft art successfully refin'd,
Though angry Cæsar frown'd, the fair were kind.
More ills from love, than tyrant's malice, flow;
Jove's thunder strikes less sure than Cupid's bow.
Ovid both felt the pain, and found the ease:
Physicians study most their own disease.
The practice of that age in this we try,
Ladies would listen then, and lovers lie.
Who flatter'd most the fair were most polite,
Each thought her own admirer in the right:
To be but faintly rude was criminal,
But to be boldly so, aton'd for all.
Breeding was banish'd for the fair-one's sake,
The sex ne'er gives, but suffers ours should take.
Advice to you, my lord, in vain we bring;
The flowers ne'er fail to meet the blooming Spring.
Though you possess all Nature's gifts, take care;
Love's queen has charms, but fatal is her snare.

On all that goddess her false smiles bestows;
As on the seas she reigns, from whence she rose.
Young Zephyrs sigh with fragrant breath, soft gales
Guide her gay barge, and swell the silken sails:
Each silver wave in beauteous order moves,
Fair as her bosom, gentle as her doves;
But he that once embarks, too surely finds
A sullen sky, black storms, and angry winds;
Cares, fears, and anguish, hovering on the coast,
And wrecks of wretches by their folly lost.

When coming time shall bless you with a bride, Let passion not persuade, but reason guide; Instead of gold, let gentle truth endear; She has most charms who is the most sincere. Shun vain variety, 'tis but disease; Weak appetites are ever hard to please. The nymph must fear to be inquisitive; Tis for the sex's quiet, to believe.

VOL. IX.

Her air an easy confidence must show,
And shun to find what she would dread to know;
Still charming with all arts that can engage,
And be the Juliana of the age.

TO THE DUTCHESS OF BOLTON,

ON HER STAYING ALL THE WINTER IN THE
COUNTRY.

CEASE rural conquests, and set free your swains,
To dryads leave the groves, to nymphs the plains.
In pensive dales alone let Echo dwell,
And each sad sigh she hears with sorrow tell.
Haste, let your eyes at Kent's pavilion shine,
It wants but stars, and then the work's divine.
Of late, Fame only tells of yielding towns,
Of captive generals and protected crowns,
Of purchas'd laurels, and of battles won,
Lines forc'd, states vanquish'd, provinces o'er-run,
And all Alcides' labour summ'd in one.

The brave must to the fair now yield the prize,
And English arms submit to English eyes:
In which bright list among the first you stand;
Though each a goddess, or a Sunderland.

TO THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH,
ON HIS VOLUNTARY BANISHMENT.

Go, mighty prince, and those great nations see,
Which thy victorious arms before made free;
View that fam'd column, where thy name engrav'd
Shall tell their children who their empire sav'd,
Point out that marble where thy worth is shown,
To every grateful country but thy own.
O censure undeserv'd! unequal fate!
Which strove to lessen him who made her great:
Which, pamper'd with success and rich in fame,
Extoll'd his conquests, but condemn'd his name.
But virtue is a crime when plac'd on high,
Though all the fault's in the beholder's eye;
Yet he, untouch'd as in the heat of wars,
Flies from no dangers but domestic jars,
Smiles at the dart which angry Envy shakes,
And only fears for her whom he forsakes:
He grieves to find the course of virtue cross'd,
Blushing to see our blood no better lost;
Disdains in factious parties to contend,
And proves in absence most Britannia's friend.
So the great Scipio of old, to shun
That glorious envy which his arms had won,
Far from his dear, ungrateful Rome retir'd,
Prepar'd, whene'er his country's cause requir'd,
To shine in peace or war, and be again admir'd.

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Such conduct, such integrity are shown,
There are no coffers empty but your own.

From mean dependance, merit you retrieve,
Unask'd you offer, and unseen you give:
Your favour, like the Nile, increase bestows,
And yet conceals the source from whence it flows.
No pomp, or grand appearance, you approve:
A people at their ease is what you love:
To lessen taxes, and a nation save,

Are all the grants your services would have.
Thus far the state-machine wants no repair,
But moves in matchless order by your care;
Free from confusion, settled and serene;
And, like the universe, by springs unscen.

But now some star, sinister to our prayers,
Contrives new schemes, and calls you from affairs:
No anguish in your looks, or cares appear,
But how to teach th' unpractis'd crew to steer.
Thus, like a victim, no constraint you need,
To expiate their offence by whom you bleed.
Ingratitude's a weed of every clime,

It thrives too fast at first, but fades in time.
The god of day, and your own lot's the same;
The vapours you have rais'd obscure your flame:
But though you suffer, and awhile retreat,
Your globe of light looks larger as you set.

O! noble passion, to your country kind,
To crown her with--the refuse of mankind.
As if the new Rome, which your schemes unfold,
Were to be built on rapine like the old,
While her asylum openly provides

For every ruffian every nation hides.

Will you still tempt the great avenger's blow, And force the bolt-which he is loath to throw; Have there too few already bit the plains, To make you seek new Prestons and Dumblains? If vengeance loses its effects so fast, Yet those of mercy sure-should longer last.

Say, is it rashness or despair provokes Your harden'd hearts to these repeated strokes; Reply:-Behold, their looks, their souls declare, All pale with guilt, and dumb with deep despair.

Hear then, you sons of blood, your destin'd fate, Hear, ere you sin too soon-repent too late. Madly you try to weaken George's reign, And stem the stream of Providence in vain. By right, by worth, by wonders, made our own, The hand that gave it shall preserve his throne. As vain your hopes to distant times remove, To try the second, or the third from Jove; For 'tis the nature of that sacred line, To conquer monsters, and to grow divine.

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ON HER MAJESTY'S STATUE
IN ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD.

NEAR the vast bulk of that stupendous frame,
Known by the Gentiles' great apostle's name;
With grace divine, great Anna's seen to rise,
Au awful form that glads a nation's eyes;
Beneath her feet four mighty realins appear,
And with due reverence pay their homage there.
Britain and Ireland seem to own her grace,
And even wild India wears a smiling face.

But France alone with downcast eyes is seen,
The sad attendant of so good a queen:
Ungrateful country! to forget so soon,
All that great Anna for thy sake has done:
When sworn the kind defender of thy cause,
Spite of her dear religion, spite of laws;

For thee she sheath'd the terrours of her sword,
For thee she broke her general-and her word:
For thee her mind in doubtful terms she told,
And learn'd to speak like oracles of old.
For thee, for thee alone, what could she more?
She lost the honour she had gain'd before;
Lost all the trophies, which her arms had won
(Such Cæsar never knew, nor Philip's son);
Resign'd the glories of a ten year's reign, [gain.
And such as none but Marlborough's arm could
For thee in annals she's content to shine,
Like other monarchs of the Stuart line.

ON THE NEW CONSPIRACY, 1716. WHERE, where, degenerate countrymen-how Will your fond folly and your madness fly? [high Are scenes of death, and servile chains so dear, To sue for blood and bondage every year, Like rebel Jews, with too much freedom curst, To court a change-though certain of the worst? There is no climate which you have not sought, Where tools of war, and vagrant kings, are bought;

ON THE KING OF SPAIN. PALLAS, destructive to the Trojan line, [vine: Raz'd their proud walls, though built by hands d.. But love's bright goddess, with propitious grace, Preserv'd a hero, and restor❜d the race. Thus the fam'd empire where the Iber flows, Fell by Eliza, and by Anna rose.

VERSES

WRITTEN FOR THE TOASTING-GLASSES OF THE KIT-CAT-CLUB, 1703.

LADY CARLISLE.

CARLISLE'S name can every Muse inspire;

To Carlisle fill the glass, and tune the lyre. With his lov'd bays the god of day shall crown A wit and lustre equal to his own.

THE SAME.

At once the Sun and Carlisle took their way, To warm the frozen north, and kindle day; The flowers to both their glad creation ow'd, Their virtues he, their beauties she bestow'd.

LADY ESSEX.

The bravest hero, and the brightest dame, From Belgia's happy clime Britannia drew; One pregnant cloud we find does often frame The awful thunder and the gentle dew.

THE SAME.

To Essex fill the sprightly wine; The health's engaging and divine. Let purest odours scent the air, And wreaths of roses bind our hair: In her chaste lips these blushing lie, And those her gentle sighs supply.

LADY HYDE.

The god of wine grows jealous of his art, He only fires the head, but Hyde the heart. The queen of love looks on, and smiles to see A nymph more mighty than a deity.

ON LADY HYDE IN CHILD-BED.

Hyde, though in agonies, her graces keeps,
A thousand charms the nymph's complaints
In tears of dew so mild Aurora weeps, [adorn;
But her bright offspring is the cheerful Morn.

LADY WHARTON.

When Jove to Ida did the gods invite, And in immortal toasting pass'd the night, With more than nectar he the banquet bless'd, For Wharton was the Venus of the feast.

PROLOGUE,

DESIGNED FOR TAMERLANE.

TO DAY a mighty hero comes, to warm
Your curdling blood, and bid you, Britons, arm.
To valour much he owes, to virtue more;
He fights to save, and conquers to restore.
He strains no text, nor makes dragoons persuade;
He likes religion, but he hates the trade.
Born for mankind, they by his labour live;
Their property is his prerogative.

His sword destroys less than his mercy saves,
And none, except his passions, are his slaves.
Such, Britons, is the prince that you possess,
In council greatest, and in camps no less:
Brave, but not cruel; wise without deceit;
Born for an age curs'd with a Bajazet.
But you, disdaining to be too secure,
Ask his protection, and yet grudge his power.
With you a monarch's right is in dispute;
Who gives supplies, are only absolute.
Britous, for shame! your factious feuds decline,
Too long you've labour'd for the Bourbon line:
Assert lost rights, an Austrian prince alone
Is born to nod upon a Spanish throne.
A cause no less could on great Eugene call;
Steep Alpine rocks require an Hannibal:
He shows you your lost honour to retrieve;
Our troops will fight, when once the senate give.
Quit your cabals and factions, and in spight
Of Whig and Tory in this cause unite.
One vote will then send Anjou back to France;
There let the meteor end his airy dance:
Else to the Mantuan soil he may repair,
Ev'n abdicated gods were Latium's care,
At worst, he'll find some Cornish borough here.

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TO THE CORNISH SQUIRE, A COMEDY.
WHO dares not plot in this good-natur'd agè?
Each place is privileg'd except the stage;
There the dread phalanx of reformers come,
Sworn foes to wit, as Carthage was to Rome;
Their ears so sanctify'd, no scenes can please,
But heavy hymns, or pensive homilies;
Truths, plainly told, their tender nature wound,
Young rakes must, like old patriarch's expound;
The painted punk the proselyte must play,
And bawds, like fille-devotes, procure and pray.
How nature is inverted! soon you'll see
Senates unanimous, and sects agree,
Jews at extortion rail, and monks at mystery.
Let characters be represented true,

An airy sinner makes an awkward Prue.
With force and fitting freedom vice arraign;
Though pulpits flatter, let the stage speak plain.
If Verres gripes the poor, or Nænius write,
Call that the robber, this the parasite.
Ne'er aim to make an eagle of an owl;
Cinna's a statesman; Sydrophel, a tool.
Our censurers with want of thought dispense,
But tremble at the hideous sin of sense.
Who would not such hard fate as ours bemoan,
Indicted for some wit, and damn'd for none?
But if, to day, some scandal should appear,
Let those precise Tartuffs bind o'er Moliere.
Poet, and papist too, they'll surely maul,
There's no indulgences at Hicks's-hall.
Gold only can their pious spite allay,
They call none criminals that can but pay:
The beedless shrines with victims they invoke,
They take the fat, and give the gods the sinoke.

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE QUEEN'S THE-
ATRE IN THE HAYMARKET.

SUCH was our builder's art, that, soon as nam'd,
This fabric, like the infant world, was fram'd.
The architect must on dull order wait,
But 'tis the poet only can create.
None else, at pleasure, can duration give:
When marble fails, the Muses' structures live.
The Cyprian fane is now no longer seen,
Though sacred to the name of love's fair queens,
E'en Athens scarce in pompous ruin stands,
Though finish'd by the learn'd Minerva's hands.
More sure presages from these walls we find,
By beauty founded, and by wit design'd,

I

Lady Sunderland.

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