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When sometime lofty towers I see down-ras'a, Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,

And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage ; So do our minutes hasten to their end;

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Each changing place with that which goes before,

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,

And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,

Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;

When I have seen such interchange of state,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown d,

Or state itself confounded to decay;
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate-
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,

That time will come and take my love away. And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ;

This thought is as a death, which cannot choose Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

Whose action is no stronger than a flower!
Is it thy will thy image should keep open

O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

Against the wreckful siege of battering days, Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight? Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays ! Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee

O fearful meditation ; where, alack! So far from home, into may deeds to pry;

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie bid ?To find out shames and idle bours in me,

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back! The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ! O no! thy love, though much, is not so great ;

O none, unless this miracle have might, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;

That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake :

For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,-
From me far off, with others all-too-near.

As, to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,

And purest faith unbappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplacid, And all my soul, and all my every part:

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And for this sin there is no remedy,

And right perfection wrongfully disgrac d,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious bis as mine,

And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,
No shape so true, no truth of such account,
And for myself mine own worth do define,

And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall d simplicity, As I all other in all worths surmount.

And captive good attending captain ill : But when my glass shows me myself indeed,

Tird with all these, from these would I be gore, Beated and chopp d with tann'd antiquity,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read,
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'T is thee (myself) that for myself I praise,

Ah! wherefore with infection should be live,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,

And lace itself with his society?
Against my love shall be, as I am now,

Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
When hours have draind his blood, and fill’ú his. And steal dead seeing of his living hue?

Why should poor beauty indirectly seek

Roses of shadow, since his rose is true!
With lines and wrinkles ; when his youthful morn
Hath travelld on to age's steepy night;

Why should he live now Nature bankrupt is,

Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ? And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,

For she hath no exchequer now but his,
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,

And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
Stealing away the treasure of his spring ;
For such a time do I now fortify

O, him she stores, to show what wealth she haul

In days long since, before these last so bad.
Against confounding age's cruel kuife,
That he shall never cut from memory

My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,

When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now, And they shall live, and he in them, still green. Before these bastard signs of faird were borne,

Or durst inhabit on a living brow, When I have seen hy Time's fell hand defac d

a In Troilus and Cressida, Ulysses saysThe rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;

“ Time bath, my lord, a tallet at his baek,

In which he puts alms for oblivion.' A Main of light. As the main of waters would signify the Time's chest and Time's wallet are the same; they are the de great body of waters, so the main of light signifies the mass or positories of what was once great and beautifal, passed away fannt of light, into which a new born child is launched.

perished, and forgotten. 5 Gracions-beautiful.

Simplicity is here used for folly. Beated, used as the participle of the verb to beat.

c Lace-embellish-ornament. & Far tatlı.








Pefore the golden tresses of the dead,

0, lest your true love may seem false in this, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,

That you for love speak well of me untrue, To live a second life on second head,

My name be buried where my body is, Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:

And live no more to shame nor me nor you. In him those holy antique hours are seen,

For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth, Without all ornament, itself, and true,

And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;

And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs wbich shake against the cold,

Bare ruind choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view In me thou seest the twilight of such day
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend : As after sunset fadeth in the west,
All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due, Which by and by black night doth take away,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
Thive outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
In other accents do this praise confound,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. They look into the beauty of thy mind,

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds ;

To love that well which thou must leave ere long : Then (churls) their thougbts, although their eyes were

kind, To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds :

But be contented : when that fell arrest But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,

Without all bail shall carry me away,
The solve is this,-that thou dost common grow.

My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.

When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,

The very part was consecrate to thee. For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;

The earth can have but earth, which is his due; The ornament of beauty is suspect,

My spirit is thine, the better part of me: A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air,

So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, So thou be good, slander doth but approve

The prey of worms, my body being dead; Thy worth the greater, being wood of time;

The coward conquest of a wretch's knife. For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

Too base of thee to be remembered. And thou present 'st a pure unstained prime.

The worth of that, is that which it contains,
Thou bast pass'd by the ambush of young days,

And that is this, and this with thee remaius.
Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd :

So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,

Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.e

And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found :

Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure ; Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Now counting best to be with you alone, Give warning to the world that I am fled

Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure : From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell : Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, Nay, if you read this line, remember not

And by and hy clean starved for a look ;
The hand that writ it: for I love you so,

Possessing or pursuing no delight,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, Save what is had or must from you be took.
If thinking on me then should make you woe.

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
O if (I say) you look upon this verse,

Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay :

Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

So far from variation or quick change?
And mock you with me after I am gone.

Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compoun is strange?

Why write I still all ore, ever the same, 0, lest the world should task you to recite

And keep invention in a noted weed, " What merit liv'd in me, that you should love

That every word doth almost tell my name, After my death,--dear love, forget me quite,

Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? For you in me can nothing worthy prove ;

O know, sweet love, I always write of you, Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,

And you and love are still my argument; To do more for me than mine own desert,

So all my best is dressing old words new, And bang more praise upon deceased I

Spending again what is already spent : Than niggard truth would willingly impart :

For as the sun is daily new and old,

So is my love still telling what is toll. * Solte. Malone reads solve in the sense of solution. We have Ho parallel example of the use of solre as a noun.

# A noted weed-a dress kuown and familiar, through berug Nuspeciouspicion.

e Owe-own.

always the sime.







As every


Your monument shall be my gentle verse,

Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste ;

When all the breathers of this world are dead; The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,

You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen) And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.

Where breath most breathes,—even in the months of
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show,
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ;

Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.

I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
Look, what thy memory cannot contain,

And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find The dedicated words which writers use
Those children nursd, deliver'd from thy brain, Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.

Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,

Finding thy worth a limit past my praise ; Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.

And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew

Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.

And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd
So oft have I invok'd thee for my muse,

What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
And found such fair assistance in any verse,

Thou truly fair wert truly sympathiz'd,
hath got my use,

In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend;
And under thee their poesy disperse.

And their gross painting might be better us d Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing, Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd. And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,

Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
And given grace a double majesty.

I never saw that you did painting need,
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,

And therefore to your fair no painting set. Whose influence is thine, and born of thee :

I found, or thought I found, you did exceed In others' works thou dost but mend the style,

The barten tender of a poet's debt : And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;

And therefore have I slept in your report, But thou art all my art, and dost advance

That you yourself, being extant, well migth shor As high as learning my rude ignorance.

How far a modern" quill doth come too short,

Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. LXXIX.

This silence for my sin you did impute, Whilst I alone did call upon thy aie,

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb; My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;

For I impair not beauty being mute, But now my gracious numbers are decay'ı,

When others would give life, and bring a tomh. And my sick muse doth give another place.

There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument

Than both your poets can in praise derise.
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen ;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,

He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.

Who is it that says most? which can say more He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word

Than this rich praise,—that you alone are you? From thy bebaviour ; beauty doth he give,

In whose confine immured is the store And found it in thy cheek; he can afford

Which should example where your equal grew ! No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
Then thank him not for that which he doth say, That to his subject lends not some small glory;
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. But he that writes of you, if he can tell

That you are you, so dignifies his story,

Let bim but copy what in you is writ, O, how I faint when I of you do write,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might, Making his style admired everywhere.
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)

Being fond on praise, which makes your prais The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark, inferior far to his,

Lxxxv. On your broad main doth wilfully appear.

My tongue-tied muse in manners holds ber still, Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,

While comments of your praise, richly compild, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;

Reserve their character with golden quill,
Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride :

And precious phrase by all the muses til'd.
Then if he thrive, and I be cast away,

I think good thoughts, while others write good wonla

And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry " Amen
The worst was this ;—my love was my decay.

To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish'd form of well-retined pen.

Hearing you prais'd, I say, “ 'T is so, 't is true," Or I shall live your epitaph to make,

And to the most of praise add something more ; Or you survive when I in earth am rotten ;

But that is in my thought, whose love to you, From hence your memory death cannot take,

Though words come hindmost, holds his rank befuse. Although in me each part will be forgotten.

Then others for the breath of words respect, Your name from hence immortal life shall have,

Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. Though I, once gone, to all the world must die : The earth can yield me but a common grave,

& Modern-trite-common. When you entour bed in men's eyes shall lie.

Reserve is here again used for presente.


your fame!




Ah! do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow, LXXXVI.

Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe; Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow.
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,

To linger out a pnrpos'd overthrow.
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inherse, If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew ? When other petty griefs have done their spite
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write

But in the onset come; so shall I taste
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ?

At first the very worst of fortune's might; No, neither he, nor his compeers by ght

And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

Compar'd with loss of thee will not seem so.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors, of my silence cannot boast ;

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
I was not sick of any fear from thence.

Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, But when your countenance fil'db up his line, Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill; Then lack'd I matter ; that enfeebled mine. Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their boine ; LXXXVII.

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,

Wherein it finds a joy above the rest ; Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, But these particulars are not my measure, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate :

All these I better in one general best. The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ;

Thy love is better than high birth to me, My bonds in thee are all determinate.

Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?

Of more delight than hawks or horses be; And for that riches where is my deserving?

And, having thee, of all men's pride I boast. The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,

Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take And so my patent back again is swerving.

All this away, and me most wretched make.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;

xci. So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
Comes home again, on better judgment making. For term of life thou art assured mine;

Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, And life no longer than thy love will stay,
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter. For it depends upon that love of thine.

Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,

When in the least of them my life hath end.
When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light,

I see a better state to me belongs And place my merit in the eye of scorn,

Than that which on thy humour doth depend. Upon thy side against myself I 'll fight,

Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.

Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. With mine own weakness being best acquainted,

O what a happy title do I find, Upon thy part I can set down a story

Happy to have thy love, happy to die! of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted;

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no llot? That thou, in losing me, shalt win much glory:

Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not :
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.

Like a deceived husbaud; so love's face Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

May still seem love to me, though alter'd-new; That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place :

For there can live no hatred in thine eye,

Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

In many's looks the false heart's bistory Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,

Is writ, in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange And I will comment upon that offence:

But Heaven in thy creation did decree. Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt;

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell; Against thy reasons making no delence.

Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's working8 be, Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,

Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness teil To set a form upon desired change,

How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
As I 'll myself disgrace : knowing thy will,

If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange :
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue
Thy sweet-beloved name no more shall dwell;

They that have power to hurt and will do none, Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong, That do not do the thing they most do show, And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, For thee, against myself I 'll vow debate,

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost bate.

They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense;

They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;

Others but stewards of their excellence.
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,

Though to itself it only live and die;
And do not drop in for an after-loss :

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity : . Steevens conjectures that this is an allusion to Dr. Dee's

For sweetest things tur sourest by their deeds; pretended intercourse with a familiar spirit. • Fucvave the last polish..

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.



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And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : xci.

The roses fearfully on thorns did stand, How sweet and lɔvely dost thou make the shame, One blushing shame, another white despair ; Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!

And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath; 0, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!

But for his theft, in pride of all his growth That tongue that tells the story of thy days,

A vengeful canker eat him up to death. Making lascivious comments on thy sport,

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ;

But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.
Naming tny name blesses an ill report,
0, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee!
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forgettist so long
And all things turn to fair, that eyes can see !

To speak of that wbich gives thee all thy might? Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege ;

Spend 'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects ligbt
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem

In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Some say, thy fault is youth, some wantonness ;

Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem

And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Some say, thy grace is youth and gentle sport;

Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey, Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less :

If Time have any wrinkle graven there; Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort.

If any, be a satire to decay, As on the finger of a throned queen

And make Time's spoils despised everywhere. The basest jewel will be well esteemid;

Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated, and for true things deem'd.

So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb be could his looks translate ! How many gazers mightst thou lead away,

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!

For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd ! But do not so; I love thee in such sort,

Both truth and beauty on my love depends ;
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say,

" Truth needs no colour with his colour fix'd, How like a winter hath my absence been

Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay; From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

But best is best, if never intermix'd ?"What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb ? What old December's bareness everywhere!

Excuse not silence so; for it lies in thee And yet this time removid" was summer's time;

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb, The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

And to be prais'd of ages yet to be. Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,

Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease :

To make him seem long hence as he shows nov. Yet this abundant issue seemd to me But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

My love is strengthen 'd, though more weak in seeming, And, thou away, the very birds are mute ;

I love not less, though less the show appear; Or, if they sing, 't is with so dull a cheer,

That love is inerchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near. The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.

Our love was new, and then but in the spring,

When I was wont to greet it with my lars; From you nave I been absent in the spring,

As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days: Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,

Not that the summer is less pleasant now That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

But that wild music burthens every hough, Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Could make me any summer's story tell,

Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongui, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew :

Because I would not dull you with my song.
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,

Alack! what poverty my muse brings forth,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

That having such a scope to show her pride, Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,

The argument, all bare, is of more worth, As with your shadow I with these did play: Than when it hath my added praise beside.

O blame me not if I no more can write!

Look in your glass, and there appears a face
The forward violet thus did I chide :-
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.

That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride

Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,

To mar the subject that before was well ? In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd.

For to no other pass my verses tend, The lily I condemned for thy hand,

Than of your graces and your gifts to tell ; * Malone explains this as, “ This time in which I was remote

And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, or alment from thee."

Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.





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