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/the-merchant-to-secure-his-treasure/
