Cupid and my Campaspe playd
At cardes for kisses; Cupid payd.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 65
His mothers doves, and teeme of sparows;
Looses them, too. Then, downe he throwes
The corrall of his lippe, the rose
Growing on's cheek,--but none knows how,--
With these, the cristall of his brow, 70
And then the dimple of his chinne;
All these did my Campaspe winne.
At last, hee set her both his eyes;
Shee won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O love! has shee done this to thee? 75
What shall, alas, become of mee? [_Exit Apelles._]