The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrowed name; Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre, Upon Euphelia'''s toilet lay; When Cloe 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 whilst I sing Euphelia'''s praise, I fix my soul on Cloe'''s eyes. Fair Cloe blushed; Euphelia frowned; I sung and gazed; I played and trembled; And Venus to the Loves around Remarked how ill we all dissembled. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NIGHT MAIL NORTH (EUSTON SQUARE, 1840) by HENRY CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE THIRD DAY: AZRAEL by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 23RD STREET RUNS INTO HEAVEN by KENNETH PATCHEN PSALM 114 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE CAGNES; ON THE RIVIERA by MATHILDE BLIND SPRING SONG by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |