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 honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
    It could not wither’d 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