Cupid and my Campaspe play’d At cards for kisses; Cupid paid; He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother’s doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip,–the rose Growing on ‘s cheek (but none knows how) With these, the crystal on his brow, And then the dimple of his chin; All these did my campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes, She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love! hath she done this to thee? What shall, alas! become of me?
