268. Cloe

THE MERCHANT, to secure his treasure,

Conveys it in a borrow’d 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 blush’d: Euphelia frown’d:

I sung, and gazed; I play’d, and trembled:

And Venus to the Loves around

Remark’d how ill we all dissembled.