Текст оригинала на английском языке
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.
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