Cupid and my Campasbe play'd
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 lips, 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 Campasbe win.
At last he set her both his eyes—
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
Oh, Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?