Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/516

 424. Song

The 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 Euphelia'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.

Fair Chloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: I sung, and gazed: I play'd, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled.

425. On My Birthday, July 21

I, my dear, was born to-day— So all my jolly comrades say: They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, And ask to celebrate my birth: Little, alas! my comrades know That I was born to pain and woe; To thy denial, to thy scorn, Better I had ne'er been born: I wish to die, even whilst I say— 'I, my dear, was born to-day.'