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. An Extempore Invitation to the Earl of Oxford, Lord High Treasurer
2. An Ode - Inscribed to the Memory of the Hon. Colonel George Villiers
3. Cupid and Ganymede
4. An Ode - Presented to the King, on His Majesty's Arrival in Holland, after the Queen's Death
5. A Song (In vain you tell your parting lover)

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

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