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 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!

                    Ben Jonson