Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll look not 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 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.

-Ben Jonson.