“Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses—Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bows 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 of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin—
All these did my Campaspe win.