Song To Celia
Ben Jonson
Drink to me only with thine
eyes,
And I will pledge
with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the
cup,
And I’ll not look for
wine.
The thirst that from 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.
