Song Poem by Matthew Prior

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.