  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 ask for wine. The thirst, that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sip, I would not change for thine. I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring 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. Ben Jonson. |
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