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
| Classic Poems |
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[ Ode to Himself ] [ To Celia ] |
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