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.