Song to Celia

Ben Jonson, 1572 – 1637

Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kisse but in the cup,

And Ile not looke for wine.

The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,

Doth aske a drinke divine:

But might I of Jove’s Nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,

As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered bee.

But thou thereon did’st onely breath,

And sent’st it back to mee:

Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,

Not of it selfe, but thee.