The merchant, to secure his treasure, <br />Conveys it in a borrowed name: <br />Euphelia serves to grace my measure; <br />But Cloe is my real flame. <br /> <br />My softest verse, my darling lyre <br />Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; <br />When Cloe noted her desire, <br />That I should sing, that I should play. <br /> <br />My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; <br />But with my numbers mix my sighs: <br />And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, <br />I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. <br /> <br />Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: <br />I sung and gazed: I played and trembled: <br />And Venus to the Loves around <br />Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.<br /><br />Matthew Prior<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-ode-2/
