An Ode
by Matthew Prior (1664-1721)

The merchant, to secure his treasure,
      Conveys it in a borrow’d 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 while I sing Euphelia’s praise,
      I fix my soul on Chloe’s eyes.

Fair Chloe 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.

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