Song

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.