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Yet fears like these should not my mind perplex, Much he would fain have spoke : but fate, alas! Were I as wise as many of my sex:

Would ne'er again consent to let him pass. But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire; Thus twice undone, what course remain'd to take, And I, perhaps, may yield to your desire.

To gain her back, already pass'd the lake? You last demand a private conference:

What tears, what patience, could procure bim ease? These are your words; but I can guess your sense. Or, ah! what vows the angry powers appease? Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend : 'Tis said, he seven long moons bewail'd his loss Be rul'd by me, and Time may be your friend. To bleak and barren rocks, on whose cold moss, This is enough to let you understand,

While, languishing, he sung his fatal Name, For now my pen has tir'd my tender hand;

He mov'd ev'n trees, and made fierce tigers tame My woman knows the secret of my heart,

So the sad Nightingale, when childless made And may hereafter better news impart.

By some rough swain, who stole her young away,

Bewails her loss beneath a poplar shade,
Mourns all the night, in murmurs wastes the day;
Her melting songs a doleful pleasure yield,

And melancholy music fills the field.

Marriage nor love could ever move his mind; BEING A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE FOURTH BOOK ON

But, all alone, beat by the northern wind,

Shivering on Tanais' banks the bard remain'd,

And of the god's unfruitful gift complain'd.
*T is not for nothing when just Heaven does frown; Circonian dames, enrag'd to be despis'd,
The injur'd Orpheus calls these judgments down; As they the feast of Bacchus solemniz'd,
Whose spouse, avoiding to become thy prey, Slew the poor youth, and strew'd about his limbs;
And all his joys at once were snatch'd away; His head, torn off from the fair body, swims
The nymph, fore-doom'd that fatal way to pass, Down that swift current where the Heber flows,
Spy'd not the serpent lurking in the grass : And still its tongue in coleful accents goes.
A moumful cry the spacious valley fills,

Ah, poor Eurydice!” he dying cry'd;
With echoing groans from all the neighbouring hills; Eurydice resounds from every side.
The Dryades roar out in deep despair,
And with united voice bewail the fair.

For such a loss he songht no vain relief,
But with his lute indulg'd the tender grief;

Along the shore he oft would wildly stray,
With doleful notes begin and end the day.

Os all those arts in which the wise excel,
At length to Hell a frightful journey made, Nature's chief master-piece is writing well:
Pass'd the wide-gaping gulph and dismal shade; No writing lifts exalted man so high,
Visits the ghosts, and to that king repairs

As sacred and soul-moving Poesy:
Whose heart's infl-xible to human prayers.

No kind of work requires so nice a touch, All Hell is ravish'd with so sweet a song;

And, if well finish’d, nothing shines so much. Light souls and airy spirits glide along

But Heaven forbid we should be so profane, In trips, like millions of the feather'd kind,

grace the vulgar with that noble name. Driven home by night, or some tempestuous wind: 'Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes, Matrons and men, raw youths and unripe maids; Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes s And mighty heroes' more majestic shades;

Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done. And sons entomb'd before their parents face: 'True wit is everlasting, like the Sun, Those the black waves of bounding Styx embrace Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retird, Nine times circumiluent; cloggd with noisome Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd. weeds,

Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound, And all that filth which standing water breeds. Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound, Amazement reach'd ev'n the deep caves of Death; Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts; The sisters, with blae snaky curls, took breath; And all in vain these superficial parts Ixion's wheel awhile unmov'd remain'd, (strain'd. Contribute to the structure of the whole, And the fierce dog his three-mouth'd voice re Without a genius too; for that's the soul:

When safe return'd, and all these dangers past, A spirit which inspires the work throughout, His wife, restor'd to breathe fresh air at last, As that of Nature mores the world about; Following (for so Proserpina was pleas’d),

A fame that glows amidst conceptions fit; A sudden rage th' anwary loves seiz'd;

Ev’n something of divine, and more than wit; He, as the first bright glimpse of day-light shin'd, Itself unseen, yet all things hy it shown, Could not refrain to cast one look behind ;

Describing all men,

bi describ'd by none. A fault of love! could Hell compassion find. Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the brain A dreadful sound thrice shook the Stygian coast, Can such a vast and mighty thing contain ? His hopes quite fled, and all his labour lost ! When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy absence mourn, “ Why hast thou thus un done thys If and me? Oh! where dost thou retire? and why dost thou What rage is this? oh, I am snatch'd from thee!”

return, She faintly cry'd. “Night and the powers of Hell Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away, Surround my sight; oh, Orpheus! oh, farewell! From pleasures of the night, and business of the day? My hands stretch forth to reach the as before; But all in vain, for I am thine no more;

* The Essay on Satire, which was written by No rror allow'd to view thy face, or day !" this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed Then from his eyes, like smoke, she fieets away. among the poems of the latter,


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Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain

This to the praise of those who better knew;
To check thy course, and use the needful rein. The many raise the value of the few.
As all is dulness, when the fancy's bad;

But here (as all our sex too oft have try'd)
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:

Women have drawn my wandering thoughts aside. And judgment has a boundless influence

Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ,
Not only in the choice of words, or sense,

Is not defect in words, or want of wit;
But on the world, on manners, and on men; But should this Muse harmonious numbers yield,
Fancy is but the feather of the pen;

And every couplet be with fancy fillid;
Reason is that substantial useful part,

If yet a just coherence be not made
Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart. Between each thought, and the whole model laid

Here I shall all the various sorts of verse, So right, that every line may higher rise,
And the whole art of poetry rehearse;

Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies : But who that task would after Horace do?

Such tritles may, perhaps of late, have past, The best of masters, and examples too!

And may be lik’d awhile, but never last; Echoes at best, all we can say is vain;

"l'is epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will, Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain. But not an elegy, nor writ with skill, "I'is true, the ancients we may rob with ease; No Panegyric', nor a Cooper's Hill *. But who, with that mean shift, himself can please, A higher flight, and of a happier force, Without an actor's pride? A player's art

Are Odes : the Muse's most unruly horse, Is above his, who writes a borrow'd part.

That bounds so fierce, the rider has no rest, Yet modern laws are made for later faults,

Here foams at mouth, and moves like one possess'd. And new absurdities inspire new thoughts:

The poet here must be indeed inspir'd,
What need has Satire then to live on theft, With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd.
When so much fresh occasion still is left? Cowley might boast to have perforin'd this part,
Fertile our soil, and full of rankest weeds,

Had he nith Nature join'd the rules of Art;
And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds. But sometimes diction mean, or verse ill-u sought,
But hold, the fools shall have no cause to fear ; Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought.
"Tis wit and sense that is the subject here: Though all appear in heat and fury done,
Defects of witty men deserve a cure,

The language still must soft and easy run.
And those who are so, will ev'n this endure. These laus may sound a little too severe;
First, then, of Songs; which now so much a But judgment yields, and fancy governs here,

Which, though extravagant, this Muse allows,
Without his song no fop is to be found;

And makes the work much easier than it shows A most offensive weapon, which he draws

Of all the ways that wisest men could find On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.

To mend the age, and mortify inankind, Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part Satire, well-writ, has most successful prov'd, Of poetry requires a nicer art;

And cures, because the remedy is lov'd. For as in rows of richest pearl there lies

'Tis hard to write on such a subject more, Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,

Without repeating things said oft before :
The least of which defects is plainly shown Some vulgar errours only we'll remove,
In one small ring, and brings the value down: That stain a beauty which we so much love.
So songs should be to just perfection wrought; Of chosen words some take not care enough,
Yet where can one be seen without a fault? And think they should be, as the subject, rough;
Exact propriety of words and thought;

This poem must be more exactly made,
Expression easy, and the fancy high;

And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words convey'd. Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly ; Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail, No words transpos'd, but in such order all,

As if their only business was to rail: As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall. But human frailty nicely to unfold, Here, as in all things else, is most unfit,

Distinguishes a satyr from a scold.
Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
Such nauseous songs, by a late author made?, A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown;
Call an unwilling censure on his shade.

So while you seem to slight some rival youth,
No that yarm thoughts of the transporting joy Malice itself may pass sometimes for truth.
Can shock the chastest, or the nicest cloy; The Laureats here may justly claim our praise,
But words obscene, too gross to move desire, Crown'd by Mack Fleckno with immortal bays;
Like heaps of fuel, only choke the tire.

Yet once his Pegasus' has borne dead weight,
On other themes he well deserves our praise; Rid by some lumpish minister of state.
But palls that appetite he meant to raise.

Here rest, my Muse, suspend thy cares awhile,
Next, Elegy, of sweet, but solemn voice, A more important task attends thy toil.
And of a subject grave, exacts the choice;

As some young eagle, that designs to fly The praise of beauty, valour, wit contains ;

A long unwonted journey through the sky, And there, too oft, despairing Love complains : Weighs all the dangerous enterprize before, In vain, alas ! for who by wit is mov'd ?

O’or what wide lands and seas she is to soar, That phenix-she deserves to be belov'd;

Doubts her own strength so far, and justly fears But noisy nonsense, and such fops as vex

The lofty road of airy travellers; Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.

3 Waller's. * Denham's. * Mr. Dryden, 2 The earl of Rochester. It may be observed, however, that many of the worst songs ascribed to

• A famous satirical poem of his. this nobleman were spurious. N.

? A pocm called the Hind and Panther.

But yet, incited by some bold design,

Reject that vulgar errour (which appears That does her hopes beyond her fears incline, So fair) of making perfect characters; Prunes every feather, views herself with care, There's no such thing in nature, and you'll draw . At last, resolv'd, she cleaves the yielding air; A faultless monster, which the world ne'er saw. Away she flies, so strong, so high, so fast,

Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew, She lessens to us, and is lost at last:

But such as may deserve compassion too.
So (though too weak for such a weighty thing) Besides the main design, compos'd with art,
The Muse inspires a sharper note to sing.

Each moving scene must be a plot apart;
And why should truth offend, when only told Contrive each little turn, mark every place,
To guide the ignorant, and warn the bold? As painters first chalk out the future face:
On, then, my Muse, adventurously engage

Yet be not fondly your own slave for this, To give instructions that concern the Stage.

But change hereafter what appears amiss. The unities of action, time, and place,

Think not so much where shining thoughts to Which, if observd, gives plays so great a grace,

place, Are, though but little practis'd, too well known As what a man would say in such a case: To be taught here, where we pretend alone

Neither in comedy will this suffice, From nicer faults to purge the present age,

The player too must be before your eyes; Less obvious errours of the English stage.

And, though 'tis drudgery to stoop so low, First, then, soliloquies had need be few,

To him you must your secret meaning show. Extremely short, and spoke in passion too.

Expose no single fop, but lay the load Our lovers talking to themselves, for want

More equally, and spread the folly broad; Of others, make the pit their confidant;

Mere coxcombs are too obvious; oft we see Nor is the matter mended yet, if thus

A fool derided by as bad as he: They trust a friend, only to tell it us;

Hawks fly at nobler game; in this low way Th'occasion should as naturally fall,

A very owl may prove a bird of prey. As when Bellario confesses all.

Small poets thus will one poor fop devour, Figures of speech, which poets think so fine, But to collect, like bees, from every flower, (Art's needless vamish to make Nature shine) Ingredients to compose that precious juice, All are but paint upon a beauteous face,

Which serves the world for pleasure and for use, And in descriptions only claim a place:

In spite of faction this would favour get; But, to make rage declaim, and grief dis But Falstaff' stands inimitable yet. course,

Another fault which, often may befall, - From lovers in despair fine things to force,

Is, when the wit of some great poet shall * Must needs succeed; for who can choose but pity So overflow, that is, be none at all, A dying hero, miserably witty?

That ev'n his fools speak sense, as if possest, But, oh! the dialogues, where jest and mock And each by inspiration breaks his jest. Is held up like a rest at shittle-cock;

If once the justness of each part be lost, Or else, like beils, eternally they chime,

Well may we laugh, but at the poet's cost.
They sigh in simile, and Jie in rhyme.

That silly thing men call sheer-wit avoid,
What things are these who would be poets thought, with which our age so nauseously is cloyd :
By nature not inspird, nor leaming taught? Humour is all; wit should be only brought
Some wit they have, and therefore may deserve To turn agrecably some proper thought.
A better course than this, by which they starve: But since the poets we of late have known
But to write plays! why, 'tis a bold pretence Shine in no dress so much as in their own,
To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence: The better by example to convince,

Nay, more; for they must look within, to find Cast but a view on this wrong side of sense. - Those secret turns of nature in the mind :

First, a soliloquy is mly made; Without this part, in vain would be the whole, Where every reason is exactly weighed, And but a body all, without a soul.

Which, once perform'd, most opportunely comes All this united, yet but makes a part

Some hero frighted at the noise of drums; Of dialogue, that great and powerful art,

For her sweet sake, whom at first sight he loves, Now alınost lost, which the old Grecians knew, And all in metaphor his passion proves: From whom the Romans fainter copies drew, But some sad accident, though yet unknown, Scarce comprehended since, but by a few.

Parting this pair, to leave the swain alone; Plato and Lucian are the best remains

He strait grows jealous, though we know not why; Of all the wonders which this art contains;

Then, to oblige his rival, needs will die : Yer to ourselves we justice must allow,

But first he makes a speech, wherein he tells Shakespeare and Fletcher are the wonders now : The absent nymph how much his fiame excels; • Consider them, and read them o'er and o'er, And yet bequeaths her generously now

Go, see them play'd; then read them as before; To that lov'd rival whoin he does not know !
For though in many things they grossly fail, Who strait appears; but who can Fate withstand ?
Over our passions still they so prevail,

Too late, alas ! to hold his hasty hand,
That our own grief by theirs is rock'd asleep; That just has given himself the cruel stroke!
The dull are forc'd to feel, the wise to weep. At which his very rival's heart is broke:
Their beauties imitate, avoid their faults:

He, more to his new friend than mistress kind, First, on a plot employ thy careful thoughts; Most sadly mourns at being left behind,

Turn it, with time, a thousand several ways ; Of such a death prefers the pleasing charms i This oft, alone, has given success to plays.

To love, and living in a lady's arms. Io Philaster, a play of Beaumont and Fletcher. ? The matchless character of Shakespeare.

What shamcful and what monstrous things are

these! And then they rail at those they cannot please; Conclude us only partial to the dead, And grudge the sign of old Ben Jonson's head; When the intrinsic value of the stage Can scarce be judg'd but by a following age: For dances, flutes, Italian songs, and rhyme, May keep up sinking nonsense for a tiine; But that must fail, which now so much o'er-rules, And sense no longer will submit to fools.

By painful steps, at last, we labour up Parnassus' hill, on whose bright airy top The Epic poets so divinely show, And with just pride behold the rest below, Heroic poems have a just pretence To be the utmost stretch of human sense; A work of such inestimable worth, There are but two the world has yet brought forth! Homer and Virgil! with what sacred awe, Do those mere sounds the world's attention draw! Just as a changeling seems below the rest Of men, or rather is a two-legg'd beast; So these gigantic souls, amaz'd, we find As much above the rest of human kind ! Nature's whole strength united! endless fame, And universal shouts attend their name! Read Homer once, and you can read no more, For all books elsc appear so mean, so poor, Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read, And Homer will be all the books you need. Had Bossu never writ, the world had still, Like Indians, view'd this wondrous piece of skill; As something of divine the work arlmir'd; Not hop'd to be instructed, but inspir’d: But he, disclosing sacred mysteries, Has shown where all the mighty magic lies; Describ'd the seeds, and in what order sown, That have to such a vast proportion grown. Sure from some angel he the secret knew, Who through this labyrinth has lent the clue.

But what, alas! avails it poor mankind, To see this promis'd land, yet stay behind ? The way is shown, but who has strength to go? Who can all sciences profoundly know? Whose fancy flies beyond weak Reason's sight, And yet has judgment to direct it right? Whose just discernment, Virgil-like, is such, Never to say too little, or too much? Let such a man begin without delay; But he must do beyond what I can say; Must above Tasso's lofty flights prevail, Succeed where Spenser, and ev'n Milton fail.

By partial love away 'tis blown,
Or the least prejudice can weigh it down;
Thus our high privilege becomes our snare,

In any nice and weighty cause,
How weak, at best, is Reason! yet the grave
linpose on that small judgment which we have
In all those wits, whose names have spread so wides

And ev'n the force of time defy'd,

Some failings yet may be descry'd. Among the rest, with wonder be it told,

That Brutus is admir'd for Cæsar's death ; By which he yet survives in Fame's immortal

Brutus, ev'n he, of all the rest, (breath In whom we should that deed the most detest,

Is of mankind esteem'd the best.
As snow, descending from some lofty hill,
Is by its rolling course augmenting still,
So from illustrious authors down have rollid
Those great encoiniums he receiv'd of old :

Republic orators will shew esteem,

And gild their eloquence with praise of him:
But Truth, unveilid, like a bright sun appears,
To shine away this heap of seventeen hundred years,
In vain 'tis urg'd by an illustrious wit,
(To whom in all besides I willingly submit)

That Casar's life no pity could deserve
From one who kill'd himself, rather than serre,
Had Brutus chose rather bimself to slay,

Than any master to obey,
Happy for Rome had been that nogle pride;
The world had then remain'd in peace, and only

Brutus dy'd.
For he, whose soul disdains to own
Subjection to a tyrant's frown,

And his own life would rather end,
Would sure much rather kill himself, than only

hurt his friend.
To his own sword in the Philippian field

Brutus indeed at last did yield:
But in those times self-killing was not rare,
And his proceeded only from despair :

He might have chosen else to live,
In hopes another Cæsar would forgive;
Then, for the good of Rome, he could once more
Conspire against a life which had spar'd his before,
Our country challenges our utmost care,
And in our thoughts deserves the tenderest share;
Her to a thousand friends we should prefer,
Yet not betray them, though it be for her.
Hard jo his heart, whom no desert can move,

A mistress or a friend to love, Above whate'er he does besides enjoy ; But may be, for their sakes, his sire or sons de

For sacred justice, or for public good,
Scorn’d be our wealth, our honour, and our blood;
In such a cause, want is a happy state,
Ev'n low disgrace would be a glorious fate;
And death itself, when noble fame survives,
More to be valued than a thousand lives.

But 'tis not surely of so fair renown
To spill another's blood, as to expose our own:

Of all that's ours we cannot give too much,
But what belongs to friendship, oh! 'tis sacrilege to

touch. Can we stand by unmov'd, and sce Our mother robb'd and ravish'd? Can we be

ODE ON BRUTUS. "Tts said, that favourite, mankind, Was made the lord of all below; But yet the doubtful are concern'd to find, "Tis only one man tells another so.

And, for this great dominion here,

Which over other beasts we claim, Reason our best credential does appear,

By which indeed we domincer, But how absurdly, we may see with shame.

Reason, that solemn trific! light as air, Driven up and down by censure or applause;


Excus'd, if in her cause we never stir,

(Though here ev'n Nature's self still seem'd to be Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the outdone) ravisher?

From such a friendship unprovok'd to fall Thus sings our þard with heat almost divine; Is horrid, yet I wish that fact were all [call *Tis pity that his thought was not as strong as fine. | Which does with too much cause ungrateful Brutus

Would it more justly did the case express,
Or that its beauty, and its grace were less.

In coolest blood he laid a long design
(Thus a nymph sometimes we see,

Against his best and dearest friend ;
Who so charming seems to be,

Did ev'n his foes in zeal exceed,
That, jealous of a soft surprise,

To spirit others up to work so black a deed ;
We searce durst trust our eager eyes)

Himself the centre where they all did join.
Such a fallacious ambush to escape,

Cæsar, meantime, fearless, and fond of him,

Was as industrious all the while
It were but vain to plead a willing rape ;
A valiant son would be provok'd the more ;

To give such ample marks of fond esteem,
A force we therefore must confess, but acted long to see with how much ease love can the wise be-

As made the yravest Romans smile
A marriage since did intervene, [before ;
With all the solemn and the sacred scene:

Loud was the Hymenean song;

He, whom thus Brutus doom'd to bleed, The violated dame 'walk'd smilingly along,

Did, setting his own race aside,
And in the midst of the most sacred dance,

Nothing less for him provide,
As if enamour'd of his sight,

Than in the world's great empire to succeed :
Often she cast a kind admiring glance

Which we are bound in justice to allow,
On the bold struggier for delight;

Is all-sufficieat proof to show
Who afterwards appear'd so moderate and cool,

That Brutus did not strike for his own sake : As if for public good alone he sq desir'd to rule.

And if, alas ! he fail'd, 'twas only by mistake,
But, oh! that this were all which we can urge
Against a Roman of so great a soul!
And that fair truth permitted us to purge
His fact, of what appears so foul !

Friendship, that sacred and sublimest thing !
The noblest quality, and chiefest good,

(In this dull age scarce understood) {to sing. Inspirts us with unusual warmth her injur'd rites

THE RAPTURE. Assist, ye angels! whose immortal bliss,


yield, I yield, and can no longer stay Though more refind, chiefly consists in this. How plainly your bright thoughts to one another

My eager thoughts, that force theinselves away. sbine!

Sure none inspir'd (whose heat transports them still

Above their reason, and beyond their will)
Oh! how ye all agree in harmony divine !
The race of mutual love with equal zeal ye run,

Can firm against the strong impulse remain ;

Censure itself were not so sharp a pain. A course, as far from any end, as when at first be

Let vulgar minds submit to vulgar sway;

What Ignorance shall think, or Malicc say,
Ye saw, and smild upon this matchless pair,
Who still betwixt them did so many virtues share,

To me are trilles; if the knowing few,

Who can see tunits, but can see beauties too, Some which belong to peace, and some to strife, Applaud that genius which themselves partake, Those of a calm, and of an active life, That all the excellence of human-kind

And spare the poet for the Muse's sake. Concurr'd to make of both but one united mind,

The Muse, who raises me from humble ground,

To view the vast and various world around; Which friendship did so fast and closely bind,

How fast I mount! in what a wondrous way Not the least cement could appear by which their souls were join'd.

I grow transported to this large survey! That tye which holds our mortal frame,

I value Earth no more, and far below Which poor unknowing we a soul and body name,

Methinks I see the busy pigmies go.

My soul entranc'd is in a rapture brought
Seems not a composition more divine, (shine.
Of more abstruse, than all that does in friendship with fancy wing'd, I feel the purer air,

Above the common tracks of vulgar thought:
From mighty Cæsar and his boundless grace, And with contempt look down on human care
Though Brutus, once at least, his life receiv'd; Airy Ambition, ever soaring high,
Şuch obligations, though so high believ'd, Stands first expos'd to my censorious eye.
Are yet but slight in such a case.

Behold some toiling up a slippery hill,
Where friendship so possesses all the place, Where, though arriv’l, they must be toiling still :

There is no room for gratitude, since he, Some, with unsteadly feet, just fallen to ground, Who so obliges, is more pleas'd than his sav'd friend Others at top, whose heads are turning round. can be.

To this high sphere it happens still that soine, Just in the midst of all this noble heat,

The most unfit, are forwardest to come; While their great hearts did both so kindly beat, Yet among these are princes forc'd to choose, That it amaz’d the lookers-on,

Or seek out such as would perhaps refuse. and forc'd them to suspect a father and a son ?; Favour too great is safely plac'd on none,

And soon becomes a dragon or a drone ,
I Rome.

Either remiss and negligent of all, ? Cæsar was saspected to have begotten Brutus. Or else imperious and tyrannical.

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