  The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay— When Cloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remark'd how ill we all dissembled. M. Prior |
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