by Ben Jonson1572-1637
Drink to me, only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss within 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 if 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.