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.