The merchant, to secure his treasure, br Conveys it in a borrow'd name: br Euphelia serves to grace my measure: br But Cloe is my real flame. br br My softest verse, my darling lyre, br Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; br When Cloe noted her desire, br That I should sing, that I should play. br br My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, br But with my numbers mix my sighs; br And, whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, br I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. br br Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: br I sung, and gazed: I play'd, and trembled: br And Venus to the Loves around br Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.