Poem by Matthew Prior

An Ode

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.

1. Seeing the Duke of Ormond's Picture, at Sir Godfrey Kneller's
2. To the Author of the Foregoing Pastoral - (Love and Friendship)
3. A Letter to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, When a Child
4. Cupid Mistaken
5. An Extempore Invitation to the Earl of Oxford, Lord High Treasurer

Alexander Brome An Ode ("WHat's this that shrouds")

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