To Celia
by Ben Jonson
  
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 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!