An excellent new Medly. To to tune of the Spanish Pavin.
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When Philomel begins to sing,
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the grasse growes green & flowres spring,
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Me thinks it is a pleasant thing,
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to walk on Primrose hill,
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Maides have you any Connie-skins
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To sell for Laces or great Pinnes
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The Pope will pardon veniall sinnes:
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Saint Peter,
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Fresh fish and newes grew quickly stale:
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Some say good wine can nere want sale,
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But God send poore folkes Beere & Ale,
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enough untill they die
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Most people now are full of pride.
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The Boy said no but yet he lyde:
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His Aunt did to the Cuck-stoole ride
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for scolding.
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Within our Towne faire Susan dwells:
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Sure Meg is poysond, for she swels,
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My friend pull off your b[u]zzards bells,
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and let the haggard fly
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Take heed you play not at Tray-trip.
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Short heeles forsooth will quickly slip.
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The beadle makes folke with his whip,
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dance naked.
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Come tapster tell us whats to pay,
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Jane frownd and cryde good Sir away.
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She tooke his kindnesse, yet said nay,
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as Maidens use to do,
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The man shall have his Mare agen,
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When all false knaves prove honest men.
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Our Sisly shall be Sainted then,
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true Roger.
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The Butcher with his masty Dog
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At Rumford you may buy a Hog,
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I faith Raph Goose hath got a clog,
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his wench is great with childe.
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In Pillory put the Bakers head,
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For making of such little bread,
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Good conscience now a dayes is dead,
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Pierce plowman.
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The Cutpurse and his Companie
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Theeves finde receivers presently:
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Shun Brokers, Bawdes, and Usury,
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for feare of afcer-claps.
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Lord, what a wicked world is this
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The stone lets Kate she cannot pisse:
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Come hither sweet and take a kisse
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in kindenesse.
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In Bath a wanton wife did dwell,
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She had two buckets to a well,
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Would not a dog for anger swell,
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to see a pudding creepe:
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The Horse-leach is become a Smith,
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When halters faile then take a With:
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They say an old man hath no pith,
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Round Robin.
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Simon doth suck up all the Egges,
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Franke never drinks without Nutmegs,
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And pretty Parnell shewes her legs,
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as slender as my waste.
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When faire Jerusalem did stand,
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The match is made give me thy hand,
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Maulkin must have a Cambrick band
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blew starched.
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The Cuckow sung hard by the doore,
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Gyll brawled like a butter whore.
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Cause her buckeheaded Husband swore
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the Miller was a knave.
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Good Poets leave of making playes
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Let players seek for Souldiers payes
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I doe not like the drunken fraies,
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in Smithfield.
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Now Roysters spurs do gingle brave,
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John Sexton playd the arrand knave.
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To digge a Coarse out of the Grave.
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and steal the sheep away.
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The wandring Prince of stately Troy
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Greene sleeves were wont to be my joy,
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He is a blinde and paultry boy
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god Cupid.
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Come hither friend and give good eare,
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A leg of mutton stuft is rare,
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Take heed you do not steal my Mare,
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it is so hot it burns.
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Behold the tryall of true love,
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He took a scrich-Owle for a Dove:
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This man is like ere long to prove
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a Monster.
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Tis merry when kinde Maltmen meet:
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No Cowards fight but in the street,
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Me thinkes this wench smels very sweet,
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of Muske, or somewhat else.
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There was a man did play at Maw,
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The whilest his wife made him a daw,
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Your Case is al[t]ered in the law,
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quoth ployden.
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The Weaver will no shuttle shoote,
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Goe bid the Cobler mend my boot
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He is a foole will go afoot
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and let his Horse stand still.
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Did John a Nokes and John a Stiles,
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Many an honest man beguiles.
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But all the world is full of wiles
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and knavery.
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Of treason and of Traytors spight
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The house is haunted with a sprit,
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Now Nan will rise about midnight,
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and walke to Richards house.
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You Courtly states and gal[l]ants all,
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Climbe not too hie for feare you fall:
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If one please not another shall,
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King pipping.
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Diana and her Darlings deere,
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The Dutchmen ply the double Beere:
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Boyes rings the bels & make good cheere
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when Kempe returnes from Rome,
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O man what meanes thy heavie looke
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Is Will not in his Mistris Booke,
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Sir Rouland for a refuge tooke
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Horne-Castle
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Rich people have the world at will
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Trades fade, but Lawiers flourish still,
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Jacke would be married unto Gyll:
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but care will kill a Cat.
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Are you there Sirrah with your Beares,
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A Barbers shop with nittie haires.
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Doll, Phillis hath lost both her eares,
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for coozning.
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Who list to lead a souldiers life:
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Tom would eat meat but wants a knife,
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The Tinker swore that Tib his wife,
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would play at uptailes all
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Beleeve my word without an an Oath
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The Tailor stole some of her cloath:
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When George lay sicke & Joane made him broath
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with Hemlocke.
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The Patron gelt the parsonage,
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And Esau sold his heritage,
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Now Leonard lack-wit is foole age,
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to be his Fathers heire.
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Thers many scratch before it itch,
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Saul did ask counsel of a Witch.
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Friend, ye may have a Bacon flitch
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at Dunmow.
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King David plaid on a Welch Harpe,
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This threed will never make good warpe
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At wise mens words each foole will carpe
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and shoot their witlesse bolts.
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Jone like a Ram wore hornes and wooll.
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Knew you my Hostis of the Bull,
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Spure Curio once was made a gull
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in Shoreditch
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The blackamores are blabber lipt,
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At yarmouth are the Herrings shipt,
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And at Bride-well the beggers whipt,
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a man may live and learne,
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Grief in my heart doth stop my tongue,
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The poore man still must put up wrong,
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Your way lies there then walk along,
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to Witham
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Theee lies a Lasse that I love well,
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The Broker hath gay clothes to sell,
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Which from the Hangmans budget fell,
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are you no further yet:
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In Summer times when Peares be ripe,
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Who would give sixpence for a Tripe,
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Play Lad or else lend me thy Pipe
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and Taber.
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Saint Nicholas Clarkes wil take a purse,
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Young children now can sweare and curse
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I hope yee like me nere the worse,
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for finding fault therewith.
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The servant is the Masters mate.
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When gossips meet, thers too much prate
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Poore Lazarus lies at Dives gate
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halfe starved,
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Make hast to Sea, and hoyst up sailes
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The hogs were servd with milking pales
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From filth[y] sluts, and from all Joayles,
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good Lord deliver us all.
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I scorne to ride a raw boned Jade,
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Fetch me a Mattocke and a Spade,
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A Gravesend Toste will soone be made,
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Saint Dennis,
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But for to finish up my Song,
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The Ale-wife did the brewer wrong,
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One day of sorrow seems as long
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as ten daies do of mirth,
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My Medly now is at an end,
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Have you no Bowles or Trayes to mend
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Tis hard to finde so true a friend
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as Damon.
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