Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

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!