Song to Celia

　　 by Ben Jonson

　　 Drinke to me， onely， with thine eyes，

　　 And I will pledge with mine；

　　 Or leave a kisse but in the cup，

　　 And Ile not looke for wine.

　　 The thirst， that from the soule doth rise，

　　 Doth aske a drinke divine：

　　 But might I of Jove's Nectar sup，

　　 I would not change for thine.

　　 I sent thee， late， a rosie wreath，

　　 Not so much honoring thee，

　　 As giving it a hope， that there

　　 It could not withered bee.

　　 But thou thereon did'st onely breath，

　　 And sent'st it back to mee：

　　 Since when it growes， and smells， I sweare，

　　 Not of it selfe， but thee.