An Ode

 The merchant, to secure his treasure, 
Conveys it in a borrowed 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 blushed: Euphelia frowned: 
I sung and gazed: I played and trembled: 
And Venus to the Loves around 
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.

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