_Campaspe._ No, nor love in me.

_Apelles._ Then have you injured many.

_Campaspe._ How so?

_Apelles._ Because you have been loved of many.

_Campaspe._ Flattered perchance of some.

_Apelles._ It is not possible that a face so fair, and a wit so
sharp, both without comparison, should not be apt to love.

_Campaspe._ If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I pray
dip your pencil in colours; and fall to that you must do, not that
you would do.

Thus she sets him aside. Poor Apelles, alone, in a later scene laments
his fate in loving her whom Alexander desires, ending his mournful
soliloquy with a song, the most beautiful of all that Lyly has scattered
so lavishly through his plays.

Cupid and my Campaspe played
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,