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Come, come away, Or let me go; Must I here stay Because y'are slow, And will continue so? Troth, lady, no.

I scorn to be A slave to state: And, since I'm free, I will not wait Henceforth at such a rate For needy fate.

If you desire My spark should glow, The peeping fire You must blow, Or I shall quickly grow To frost or snow.

When I of Villars do but hear the name, It calls to mind that mighty Buckingham, Who was your brave exalted uncle here, Binding the wheel of fortune to his sphere, Who spurned at envy, and could bring with ease An end to all his stately purposes.