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.