Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes, <br />And I will pledge with mine; <br />Or leave a kisse but in the cup, <br />And Ile not looke for wine. <br />The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, <br />Doth aske a drinke divine: <br />But might I of Jove's Nectar sup, <br />I would not change for thine. <br />I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath, <br />Not so much honoring thee, <br />As giving it a hope, that there <br />It could not withered bee. <br />But thou thereon did'st onely breath, <br />And sent'st it back to mee: <br />Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare, <br />Not of it selfe, but thee.<br /><br />Ben Jonson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-celia/
