I.
SURE ’tis hard still to love, yet despise what I love,
To know him unworthy my heart;
All extremes of disgust or of tenderness prove,
Which pride and which fondness impart.

II.
If to lawless indulgence his passions incline,
If debased by promiscuous fires,
Shall a bosom so pure and so haughty as mine
Be the sport of unholy desires?

III.
No! , this bosom, so pure and so haughty, disdains
An incense which multitudes share!
Yet ’tis well , since his principles sunder those chains
Which his graces compell’d me to wear!

IV.
Hence! beautiful butterfly, hence! nor renew
An homage, which still must be vain;
The bashful Mimosa must shrink from thy view,
But the rose, pink, and tulip, remain.

Quoted from: Elizabeth Trefusis: Poems and tales. Vol. 1. London: Samuel Tipper, 1808.