How old may Phyllis be, you ask,
Whose beauty thus all hearts engages?
To answer is no easy task;
For she has really two ages.
Stiff in brocard, and pinch’d in stays,
Her patches, paint, and jewels on;
All day let envy view her face;
And Phyllis is but twenty-one.
Paint, patches, jeweTHE 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.