The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on’s cheek (but none knows how),
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on 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! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
Alexander and Campaspe.