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 did'st only breath,

And sent'st it back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

Ben Jonson (1573-1637)