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?