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. Cloe Jealous
2. Upon This Passage In Scaligeriana
3. If Wine and Music Have the Power
4. An Ode to Mr. Howard
5. Answer to Cloe Jealous. The Author Sick

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

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