An Ode

The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Chloe is my real Flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; When Chloe 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 Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frowned: I sung and gazed:I played and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.