At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow 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 chrystal on his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes: