| To Celia... Ben Jonson... |
|
Drink to me only with thine eyes, And i will pledge with mine, Or leave a kiss in but a cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst, that for the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me: Since when it grows, and smells, i swear, Not of itself, but thee. |
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