The morrow, Phyllis, far more tender,
Trembling she would lose the bliss,
Was very happy to surrender
Thirty sheep for one short kiss.
Strode, a minor English poet of the seventeenth century, writes about how he and his sweetheart played for kisses:
My love and I for kisses played,
She would keep stakes, I was content;
But when I won she would be paid—
This made me ask her what she meant.
Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain,