Song to Celia - by Ben Johnson

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 breath

And sent'st it back to me:

Since, when it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself but thee.