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There's my countryman Higgins-oh! let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But hang it-to poets, who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat:
Such dainties to them it would look like a flirt;
Like sending 'em ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie center'd, An acquaintance, a friend as he call'd himself, enter'd; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, Who smil'd as he gaz'd at the ven❜son and me. "What have we got here?-Why this is good eating? "Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting?" "Why whose should it be, sir?" cried I, with a flounce;

"I get these things often"-but that was a bounce: "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,

"Are pleas'd to be kind-but I hate ostentation."

"If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. "To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; "No words-I insist on't-precisely at three: "We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be there;

"My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. "And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! "We wanted this ven'son to make out a dinner. "I'll take no denial-it shall and it must, "And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. "Here, porter-this ven'son with me to Mile-end! "No words, my dear Goldsmith-my friend-my dear friend!"

Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And nobody with me at sea but myself," Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty Were things that I never dislik❜d in my life, Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day, in due splendor to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dine (A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine), My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite

dumb

With tidings that Johnson and Burke could not come;

"And I knew it," he cry'd, "both eternally fail, "The one at the House, and the other with Thrale: "But no matter; I'll warrant we'll make up the party "With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty: "The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,

"Who dabble and write in the papers like you; "The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; "Some thinks he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge." While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; At the sides there were spinage and pudding made hot, In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian : So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most, was that d-'d Scottish rogue,

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue:

And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,

"A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;

"Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst "But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.” "The tripe!" quoth the Jew: "if the truth I must speak,

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"I could eat of this tripe seven days in a week: "I like these here dinners so pretty and small; "But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."

"Oh ho!" quoth my freind, "he'll come on in a trice, "He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: "There's a pasty"-" A pasty!" repeated the Jew; "I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." "What the değil, mon, a pasty!” re-echo'd the Scot; "Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for thot." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about.

While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified enter'd the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night; But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?

That she came with some terrible news from the

baker:

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven,'
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. :
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on't the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac❜d,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning,
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning:
At least, it's your temper, as is very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own;
So perhaps, in yur habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

RETALIATION.* A POEM.

Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united.
If our landlord+ supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best
dish:

Our Dean shall be ven'son, just fresh from the plains;

Our Burkes shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; Our Will|| shall be wild fowl of excellent flavour, And Dick¶ with his pepper shall heighten the savour; Our Cumberland's ** sweet-bread its place shall

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Mr. William Burke, secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin.

¶ Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada. ** Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces. tt Doctor Douglas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.

Our Garrick's a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,

That Ridge+ is anchovy, and Reynolds ‡ is lamb;
That Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry-fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine: let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with
mirth :

If he had any faults he has left us in doubt;
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be deny'd 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was
such,

We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind:
Tho' fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat,
To persuade Tommy Townshend || to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of
dining:

Though equal to all things, for all things unfit;
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit:
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't:

The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,"

His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits? Alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his

own,

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at; Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!

What spirits were his! what wit and what whim! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!¶ Now wrangling and grumbling, to keep up the ball! Now teazing and vexing, yet laughing at all! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine:

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Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:

When satire and censure encircled his throne,

I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kendricks+ shall
lecture;

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchmen meet Scotchmen and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick: describe him who can,
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man:
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings-a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And be-plaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
"Twas only that when he was off, he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them
back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please;
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind;
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfals || so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you
gave!

How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd,

While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flie,

To act as an angel and mix with the skes:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love.
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kelly above.

The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

+ Dr. Kendrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of "The School of Shakspear."

James Macpherson, Esq. who, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

§ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c,

Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. J

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant crea

ture,

And slander itself must allow him good nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser:
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye
He was, could he help it? a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of
hearing;

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.

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Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave į man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill!
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set in a roar ;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall § confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied lis squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious ibations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew al around it (you can do no less)
Cross-reading, ship-news, and mistakes of the
press.

Merry Whtefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit: This debt to hy mem'ry I cannot refuse, "Thou best-himour'd man, with the worst-humour'd

muse."

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

+ Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humourous essays. Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Doctor Goldsmith used to say, it was impossible to keep him company without being infected with the itch of punning.

§ Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. Mr. Whitefoord has (frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

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The following Letter, addressed to the Printer of the St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that Paper in June, 1767.

SIR-As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago: and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing; and were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me friendship and learning for communications of a much the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his more important nature.-I am, Sir, Yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

"TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." "Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dang❜rous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still:

And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn :
Taught by that Pow'r who pities me,
I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.

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The Fryar of Orders Gray, in Reliq. of Ancient Poetry, Vol. I. p. 243.

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"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heav'n descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir❜d a master's care;

The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,

The hermit trim'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smil'd; And, skill'd in legendary lore

The lingering hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spy'd,

With answering care opprest:

"And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove;

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.

"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep?
"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest:

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view';
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confess'd
A maid in all her charms.

"And, ah forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn," she cried; "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heav'n and you reside. "But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray? Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

"My father liv'd beside the Tyne, ' A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms
Unnumber'd suitors came,
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove:
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.
"In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth or pow'r had he:
Wisdom and worth were all he had;
But these were all to me.

"The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heav'n refin'd,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine:
Their charms were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain.

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay :

I'll seek the solitude he'sought,

And stretch me where he lay. "And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide;
'Twas Edwin's self that prest.
"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor❜d to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign:

And shall we never, never part,
My life-my all that's mine?

"No, never, from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."

THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

A TALE.

SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Book-worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five
Made him the happiest man alive;

He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.
Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair?

Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arriv'd at thirty-six?
O had the archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town;
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop!
O had her eyes forgot to blaze!
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze!
Oh!-but let exclamation cease;
Her presence banish'd all his peace:
So with decorum all things carried,

Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was-married.
Need we expose to vulgar sight

The raptures of the bridal night?
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground,
Or draw the curtains clos'd around?
Let it suffice, that each had charms:
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms;
And, though she felt his usage rough,
Yet in a man 'twas well enough.

The honeymoon like lightning flew;
The second brought its transports too;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss;

The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss;
But when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain'd behind,
That very face had robb'd her mind..
Skill'd in no other arts was she.
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle:
'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace;
Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy night-caps wrapt her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain-lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing?

In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting;
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee:
The 'squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations.

Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;

While all their hours were past between
Insulting repartee or spleen.

Thus as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown:
He fancies ev'ry vice she shows,
Or thins her lip, or points her nose:
Whenever rage or envy rise,

How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,

Her face is grown a knowing phiz;

And though her fops are wondrous civil, He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, As each a different way pursues, While sullen or loquacious strife Promis'd to hold them on for life, That dire disease, whose ruthless pow'r Withers the beauty's transient flow'r, Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare Levell❜d its terrors at the fair; And, rifling ev'ry youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright: Each former art she vainly tries To bring back lustre to her eyes.. In vain she tries her pastes and creams To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens: The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And e'en the captain quit the field.

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old. With modesty her cheeks are dy'd, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway, She learns good-nature ev'ry day: Serenely gay, and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

THE GIFT. To IRIS,

In Bow Street, Covent Garden. SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give-and let 'em;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em. I'll give but not the full-blown rose, Or rose-bud more in fashion; Such short-liv'd offerings but disclose A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. In Imitation of Dean Swift. LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd As rational the human mind; Reason, they say, belongs to man; But let them prove it, if they can.

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