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.