Ben Jonson

To Celia

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 back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
     Not of itself, but thee.