…from the quills of dead white poets
John Lyly (1554 – 1606)
Cupid and my Campaspe 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 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.
At last he set her both his eyes:
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me?