Concealment The merchant, to secure his treasure, conveys it in a borrowed name; Euphelia serves to grace my measure, but Cloe is my flame real flame. My softest verse, my darling lyre, upon Euphelia's table lay; when Cloe noted her desire, that I should sing, that I should play. 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.