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

-Ben Jonson