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