MATTHEW PRIOR
For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby's hair,
She may receive and own my flame,
For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas' when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.
For, as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordam'd (would Fate but mend it'), That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.
��T!
��434 Song
SHE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre, Upon Eupheha's toilet lay;
When Chloe 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 while I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.
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