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Because the infult's not on man, but God?

But pray, when others praife him, do I blame? | And each blafphemer quite cfcape the rod,
Call Verres, Wolfey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a wreath of nine,
Oh all accomplish'd St. John! deck thy thrine?
What! fhall each spur-gall'd hackney of the
day,

When Paxton gives him 'double pots and pay :
Or each new penfion'd fycophant pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend;
Then wifely plead, to me they meant no hurt;
But 'twas my gueft at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure, if I fpare the Minifter, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be faid
His faws are toothlefs, and his hatchets lead.
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To fee a footman kick'd that took his pay:
But when he heard th'affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a man of honour, one a knave;
The prudent Gen'ral turn'd it to a jeft,
And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the reft:
Which not at prefent having time to do-

F. Hold, Sir, for God's fake! where's the af-
front to you?

Against your worship when had S-k writ?
Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard, whofe diftich all commend
(In pow'r a fervant, out of pow'r a friend)
To W-le guilty of fome venial fin;
What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest, whofe flattery bedropt the crown,
How hurt he you? he only ftain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whofe fpeech you took, and gave it to a friend?
P. Faith, it imports not much from whom

it came;

Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame,
Since the whole Houfe did afterwards the fame.
Let courtly wits to wits afford fupply,
As hog to hog in huts of Weftphaly;
If one, thro' nature's bounty or his Lord's,
Has what the frugal, dirty foil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mefs almost as it came in;
The bleffed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles clofe behind;
From tail to mouth, they feed and they caroufe:
The laft full fairly gives it to the House.

F. This filthy fimile, this beaftly line
Quite turns my ftomach-

P. So does flatt'ry minc:
And all your courtly civit-cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
But hear me farther, Japhet, 'tis agreed,
Writ not, and Chartres fcarce could write or read.
In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot
write;

And muft no cgg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
Muft never patriot then declaim at gin,
Unlefs, good man he has been fairly in?
No zealous pato blame a failing fpoufe,
Without a ftaring reafon on his brows?

Ask you, what provocation I have had?
The ftrong antipathy of good to bad.
When truth or virtue an affiont endures,
Th'affront is mine, my friend, and fhall be your's.
Mine, as a foe profefs'd to falfe pretence,
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his fenfe;
Mine, as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You're ftrangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no flave:
So impudent, I own myfelf no knave:
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to fee
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me :
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and fham'd by ridicule alone,

O facred weapon! left for truth's defence;
Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence !
To all but heav'n-directed hands deny'd;
The Mufe may give thee, but the Gods muft guide:
Rev'rent, I touch thee! but with honeft zeal;
To roufe the watchmen of the public weal;
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate flumb'ring in the stall.
Ye tinfel infects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The Mufe's wing fhall brush you all away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship fings,
All that makes faints of queens, and gods of kings,
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the prefs;
Like the laft Gazette, or the last address.

When black ambition ftains a public caufe,
A monarch's fword when mad vainglory draws,
Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's fear,
Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not fo, when diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Vir、 tuc's fhrine,

Her priestess Mufe forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of Eternity.
There, other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the grave;
Far other ftars than * and ** wear,
And may defcend to Mordington from Stair;
(Such as on Hough's unfully'd mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine)
Let Envy howl, while Heav'n's whole chorus
fings,

And baik at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let flatt'ry fick'ning fee the incenfe rife,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, fanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verfe as mean as mine.

Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw,
When truth ftands trembling on the edge of law;
Here, laft of Britons! let your names be read;
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead;
And, for that caufe which made your fathers
Fall by the votes of their degen'rate line. [thine,
F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Effy's on Man.
Imitations

$ 19. Imitations of Horace. POPE.

EPISTLE VII.

Imitated in the manner of Dr. Swift. 'TIS time, my Lord, I gave my word

I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to Auguft, and, in short,
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am fplenetic ?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The fhops fhut up in ev'ry ftreet,
And fun'rals black'ning all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores!
And what a duft in ev'ry place?

And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W and H** both in town!
"The dog-days are no more the cafe."
'Tis true, but winter comes apace:
Then fouthward let your bard retire,
Hold out fome months 'twixt fun and fire,
And you fhall fee the first warm weather,
Me and the butterflies together.

My Lord, your favours well I know;
'Tis with diftinétion you bestow;
And not to ev'ry one that comes,
Juft as a Scotfman does his plums.

4

Pray take them, Sir, enough's a feast:
Eat fome, and pocket up the reft'-

What, rob your boys? thofe pretty rogues!
No, Sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.'
Thus fools with compliments befiege ye,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;

And 'tis but juft, I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wife man always is or thou'd ́
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a diff'rence in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll fay, you'll find in me
A fafe companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near-
A word, pray, in your Honour's ear:
I hope it is your refolution
To give me back my conftitution!
The fprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th'engaging fimile, the gaiety,
That laugh'd down many a fummer fun,
And kept you up fo oft till one :
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my strain.
A weazel once made fhift to flink
In at a corn-loft thro' a chink;
But having amply stuff'd his fkin,
Could not get out as he got in:
Which one belonging to the houfe
('Twas not a man, it was a mouse)
Obferving, cry'd, You, 'fcape not so,
Lean as you came, Sir, you must go.'
Sir, you may fpare your application,
I'm no fuch beaft, nor his relation;

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Nor one that temperance advance, Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans: Extremely ready to refign

All that may make me none of mine. South-Sea fubfcriptions take who please, Leave me but liberty and cafe : 'Twas what I faid to Craggs and Child, Who prais'd my modefty, and fmil'd. Give me, I cry'd (enough for me) My bread, and independency! So bought an annual rent or two, And liv'd-juft as you fee I do, Near fifty, and without a wife, I trust that finking fund, my life. Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well, Shrink back to my paternal cell, A little houfe, with trees a row, And, like its mafter, very low. There dy'd my father, no man's debtor; And there I'll die, nor worfe nor better. To fet this matter full before ve, Our old friend Swift will tell his story. "Harley, the nation's great fupport," But you may read it, I flop fhort.

SATIRE VI.

The first part imitated in the year 1714, by Dr.
Swift; the latter part added afterwards.

I'VE often wish'd that I had clear
For life, fix hundred pounds a year,
A handfome houfe to ledge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,

A terras-walk, and half a rood
Of land, fet out to plant a wood.

Well, now I have all this and more,

I afk not to increase my store;
But here a grievance feems to lie,
All this is mine but till I die;

'I can't but think 'twould found more clever, "To me and to my heirs for ever,”

If I ne'er got or loft a groat
By any trick or any fault;
And if I pray by reafon's rules,
And not like forty other fools,

As thus: "Vouchfafe, oh gracious Maker!
"To grant me this and t'other acre:
"Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,
"Direct my plough to find a treasure :"
But only what my station fits,
And to be kept in my right wits:
Preferve, Almighty Providence!
Juft what you gave me, competence:
And let me in thefe fhades compote
Something in verfe as true as profe;
Remov'd from all th'ambitious fcene,
Nor puff'd by pride, nor funk by spleen.
In fhort, I'm perfectly content,
Let me but live on this fide Trent;
Nor cross the Channel twice a year,
To spend fix months with ftatefinen her

I inuft by all means come to town, 'Tis for the fervice of the Crown. "Lewis, the Dean will be of use; "Send for him up, take no excufe."

The toil, the danger of the feas,
Great Minifters ne'er think of thefe;
Or let it coft five hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found;
It is but fo much more in debt;
And that they ne'er confider'd yet.

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"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, "Let my Lord know you're come to town.' I hurry me in hafte away, Not thinking it is levee-day; And find his Honour in a pound, Hemm'd by a triple circle round, Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green: How fhould I thruft myfelf between? Some wag obferves me thus perplex'd, And, finiling, whispers to the next, “I thought the Dean had been too proud "To juftie here among a crowd." Another, in a furly fit,

Tells me I have more zeal than wit:
"So eager to exprefs your love,
"You ne'er confider whom you fhove,
"But rudely prefs before a Duke.”
I own I'm pleas'd with this rebuke,
And take it kindly, meant to fhow
What I defire the world fhould know,

I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never faw
Come with petitions fairly penn'd,
Defiring I would ftand their friend.

This humbly offers me his cafeThat begs my int'reft for a placeA hundred other mens affairs, Like bees, are humming in my cars. "To-morrow my appeal comes on; "Without your help the caufe is gone-" The Dule expects my Lord and you About fome great affairs, at two

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Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind, "To get my warrant quickly fign'd: Confider, 'tis my fit requeft."Be fatisfy'd, I'll do my beft: Then prefently he falls to teize, "You may for certain, if you pleafe; "I doubt not, if his Lordship knew"And, Mr Dean, one word from you—" 'Tis (let me fee) three years and more, (October next it will be four) Since Harley bid me firft attend, And chofe me for an humble friend; Would take me in his coach to chat,

And queftion me of this and that;

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As, What's o'clock?' and, How's the wind?'

Whofe chariot's that we left behind?'

Or gravely try to read the lines

Writ underneath the country figns;
Or," Have you nothing new to-day

"From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?" Such tattle often entertains

My Lord and me as far as Stains;
As once a week we travel down
To Windfor, and again to Town;
Where all that pafles inter nos
Might be proclaim'd at Claring-Crofs.

Yet fome I know with envy fwell, Becaufe they fee me us'd fo well:

"How think you of our friend the Dean? "I wonder what fome people mean; "My Lord and he are grown fo great,

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Always together tete-a-tete.

"What, they admire him for his jokes-
"See but the fortune of fome folks!"
There flies about a strange report
Of fome exprefs arriv'd at court:
I'm ftopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechis'd in ev'ry street.
"You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great;
"Inform us, will the Emp'ror treat?
"Or do the prints and papers lie?"
Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.
"Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest?
"Tis now no fecret"-1 protest
'Tis one to mc-" Then tell us, pray,
"When are the troops to have their pay!"
And, tho' I folemnly declare

I know no more than my Lord Mayor,
They ftand amaz'd, and think me grown
The clofeft mortal ever known.

Thus, in a fea of folly toft,
My choiceft hours of life are loft;
Yet always withing to retreat,
Oh, could I fee my country-feat!
There leaning near a gentle brook,
Sleep, or perufe fome ancient book;
And there in fweet oblivion drown
Thofe cares that haunt the court and town,
O charming noons, and nights divine!
Or when I fup, or when I dine,
My friends above, my folks below,
Chatting and laughing all a-row;
The beans and bacon fet before 'em,
The grace-cup ferv'd with all decorum:
Each willing to be pleas'd, and please,
And ev'n the very dogs at eafe!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian fings,

A neighbour's maducfs, or his fpoufe's,
Or what's in either of the houses:
But fomething much more our concern,
And quite a fcandal not to learn:
Which is the happier, or the wifer,
A man of merit, or a mifer?
Whether we ought to choose our friends
For their own worth, or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call ?

And what, the very best of all?

Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) A tale extremely a-propos : Name a town-life, and in a trice, He had a ftory of two mice.Once on a time, fo runs the fable, A country moufe, right hofpitable, Receiv'd a town moufe at his board, Juft as a farmer might a lord. A frugal moufe, upon the whole, Yet lov'd his friend, and had a foul ;

Knew what was handfome, and would do't, On juft occafion, coute qui coute.

He

He brought him bacon (nothing lean);
Pudding that might have pleas'd a dean;
Cheefe, fuch as men in Suffolk make,
But wish'd it Stilton for his fake;
Yet, to his gueft tho' no way fparing,
He eat himself the rind and paring.
Our courtier icarce would touch a bit,
But thow'd his breeding and his wit;"
He did his beft to feem to eat,

A

crv'd," I vow you're mighty neat. But lord, my friend, this favage fcene!

God's fake, come, and live with men : "Confider, mice, like men, muft die,

Bath mall and great, both you and I; “Then spend your life in joy and sport.— "Ts doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court." The ver:eft hermit in the nation Maryeld, God knows, to ftrong temptation. A va they come, thro' thick and thin, To a tal houfe near Lincoln's Inn:

Twa
on the night of a debate,
When all their lordships had fat late.

Buboid the place, where if a poet
Shind in defcription, he might show it;
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls,
And tips with filver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotefco roofs, and ftucco floors:
But let it, in a word, be faid,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkins white, the carpet red:
The guests withdrawn, had left the treat,
And down the mice fat, tete-a-tete.

Our courtier walks from difh to dish, Taftes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, "Que ca eft bon! Ah goutez ca! "That jelly's rich, this malmfey healing; "Pray dip your whifkers and your tail in." Was ever fuch a happy fwain?

He ftuffs and fwills, and ftuffs again.
"I'm quite afham'd-'tis mighty rude
"To cat fo much-but all's fo good!
"I have a thousand thanks to give-
"My lord alone knows how to live."
No fooner faid, but from the hall

Ruth chaplain, butler, dogs and all :
"A rat! a rat! clap too the door.”-
The cat comes bouncing on the floor!
O for the heart of Homer's mice,
'Or gods to fave them in a trice!
(It was by Providence they think,
For your damn'd Stucco has no chink.)

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}

An't please your honour," quoth the peasant, "This fame defert is not fo pleafant :

"Give me again my hollow tree, "A crust of bread, and liberty !"

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Ah found no more thy foft alarms,
Nor circle fober fifty with thy charms!
Mother too fierce of dear defires!
Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires.
To number five direct your doves, [loves;
There fpread round Murray all your blooming
Noble and young, who ftrikes the heart
With ev'ry fprightly, ev'ry decent part;
Equal, the injur❜d to defend,

To charm the miftrefs, or to fix the friend.
He, with a hundred arts refin'd,
Shall ftretch thy conquefts over half the kind:
To him each rival fhall fubmit,

Make but his riches equal to his wit.

Then fhall thy form the marble grace (Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face: His houfe embofom'd in the grove,

Sacred to focial life and focial love,

Shall glitter o'er the pendent green, Where Thames reflects the vifionary scene: Thither the filver founding lyres

Shall call the fmiling loves and young defires; There, ev'ry grace and muse shall throng, Exalt the dance, or animate the fong;

There youths and nymphs, in confort gay, Shall hail the rifing, close the parting day. With me, alas! thofe joys are o'er; For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu, fond hope of mutual fire! The ftill-believing, ftill-renew'd defire; Adieu! the heart-expanding bowl, And all the kind deceivers of the fou!! But why? Ah tell me, ah too dear! Steals down my cheek th'involuntary tear? Why words fo flowing, thoughts fo free, Stop, or turn nonfenfe, at one glance of thee? Thee, dreft in fancy's airy beam, Abfent I follow thro' th'extended dream; Now, now I ccafe, I clafp thy charms, And now you burst (ah cruel!) from And fwiftly fhoot along the inall, Or foftly glide by the canal;

my arms;

Now thown by Cynthia's filver ray, And now on rolling waters fnatch'd away.

Part of the Ninth Ode of the Fourth Book.

A FRAGMENT.

LEST you fhould think that verse shall die, Which founds the filver Thames along, Taught on the wings of truth to fly,

Above the reach of vulgar fong;

Tho' daring Milton fits fublime,

In Spencer native mufes play;
Nor yet fhall Waller yield to time,
Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay—
Sages and chiefs long fince had birth

Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd;
Thefe rais'd new empires o'er the earth,

And thofe, new heav'ns and fyftems fram'd. Vain was the chief's, the fage's pride!

They had no poet, and they dy'd:
In vain they fchem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no poet, and are dead.

The

§ 20. The Traveller; or, a Prospect of Society*. Inferibed to the Rev. Mr. H. Goldsmith.

By Dr. GOLDSMITH.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, flow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wand'ring Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houfclefs ftranger fhuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forfaken lies,
A weary wafte expanding to the fkies;
Where'er I roam, whatever realins to fee,
My heart untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns, with ceafelefs pain,
And drags, at each remove, a length'ning chain.
Eternal bleffings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian faints attend;
Blefs'd be that fpot where cheerful guests retire;
To paufe from toil, and trim their evening fire;
Blefs'd that abode where want and pain repair,
And ev'ry ftranger finds a ready chair:
Blefs'd be thofe feafts, with fimple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jefts or pranks that never fail,
Or figh with pity at fome mournful tale;
Or prefs the bafhful ftranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good!

But me, not deftin'd fuch delights to share,
My prime of life in wand'ring spent, and care:
Impell'd, with fteps unceasing, to purfue
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle, bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet as I follow, flies;
My fortune leads to traverfe realms alone,
And find no fpot of all the world my own.
Ev'n now, where Alpine folitudes afcend,
I fit me down a penfive hour to spend;
And plac'd on high, above the ftorm's career,
Look downward where an hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forefts, cities, plains, extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the fhepherd's humbler pride.
When thus Creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the ftore, fhould thanklefs pride repine?
Say, fhould the philofophic mind difdain [vain?
That good which makes each humbler bofom
Let fchool-taught pride diffemble all it can,
Thefe little things are great to little man;
And wifer he, whofe fympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind. [crown'd;
Ye glitt'ring towns, with wealth and fplendor |
Ye fields, where fummer fpreads profufion round;
Ye lakes, whofe veffels catch the bufy gale;
Ye bending fwains, that drefs the flow'ry vale,
For me your tributary ftores combine :
Creation's heir! the world, the world is mine!

As fome lone mifer, vifiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rifing raptures fill, Yet ftill he fighs, for hoards are wanting ftill: Thus to my breast alternate paffions rife, Pleas'd with cach good that Heav'n to man fupYet oft a figh prevails, and forrows fall, [plies; To fee the hoard of human blifs fo fmall;"

And oft I wish, amidst the fcene, to find
Some spot to real happiness confign'd;
Where my worn foul, each wand'ring hope at reft,
May gather blifs to fee my fellows blefs'd.

But where to find that happieft fpot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ?
The fhudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happieft fpot his own;
Extols the treafures of his ftormy feas,
And his long nights of revelry and cafe:
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boafts of his golden fands and palmy wine;
Bafks in the glare, or ftems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam;
His firft, beft country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
Aud eftinate the bleffings which they share,
Tho' patriots flatter, ftill fhall wifdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As diff'rent good, by art or nature given,
To diff'rent nations, makes their bleffings even.
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her blifs at labour's earnest call;
With food as well the peafant is fupply'd
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's fhelvy fide;
And tho' the rocky-crefted fummits frown,
Thefe rocks by custom turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the bleflings fent;
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content.
Yet thefe each other's pow'r fo ftrong conteft,
That either feeins deftructive of the reft. [fails;
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment
And honour finks where commerce long prevails.
Hence ev'ry ftate, to one lov'd bleffing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the fav'rite happinefs attends,
And fpurns the plan that aims at other ends;
Till carried to excefs in cach domain,
This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain.

But let us try thefe truths with clofer eyes,
And trace them thro' the profpect as it lies:
Here for a while, my proper cares refign'd;
Here let me fit in forrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub at random caft,
That thades the fteep, and fighs at ev'ry blaft,

Far to the right, where Apennine afcends,
Bright as the fummer, Italy extends;
Its uplands floping, deck the mountain's fide,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
While oft fome temple's mould'ring tops between,
With venerable grandeur mark the fcene.

Could Nature's bounty fatisfy the breast, The fons of Italy were furely bleft. Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rife, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright fucceffion decks the varied year; Whatever tweets falute the northern iky With vernal leaves, that blossom but to die,— Thefe, here difporting, own the kindred foil, Nor afk luxuriance from the planter's toil;

The Reader is not to be informed that ebronological order is not intended; but fuch a commixture of earlier and later Poems as may furnith the most agrecable variety.

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