424. Song

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,	5
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:	10
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	15
Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled.