From his breast my image drove;
With contempt my truth requited,
And preferred a wanton love.
Thou art proud—and mark me, Byron!
Proud is my soul as thine own;
Soft to love—but hard as iron
When despite is on me thrown.
But, ’tis past!—I’ll not upbraid thee,
Nor shall ever wish thee ill;
Wretched though thy crimes have made me,