An ODE.

An ODE.

I.

The Merchant, to secure his Treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd Name: Euphelia serves to grace my Measure; But Cloe is my real Flame.

II.

My softest Verse, my darling Lyre Upon Euphelia's Toylet lay; When Cloe noted her Desire, That I should sing, that I should play.

III.

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 Cloe's Eyes.

IV.

Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: I sung and gaz'd: I play'd and trembl'd: And Venus to the Loves around Remark'd, how ill We all dissembl'd.