An Ode

A poem by Matthew Prior

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

Fair Chloe blush’d: Euphelia frowned:
I sung and gazed:I played and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.