By Matthew Prior
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.
Poet Bio
Prior was born in the Westminster area of London on either 21 or 23 July 1664 to Elizabeth and George Prior, a London joiner (skilled carpenter). He was the fifth of their six children but the only one to survive infancy. Prior served as a secretary to the Hague, a secretary to the King, and an English diplomat in France.
See More By This Poet
More Poems about Love
As Winds That Blow Against A Star
After Love
There is no magic any more,
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.
You were the wind and I the sea—
There is no splendor any more,
I...