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To Celia
by Ben Jonson

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!

GO TO POLL

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(1572-1637)

The tumultuous life of Ben Jonson began in London on June 11, 1572. His clergyman father died before he was born, but his mother remarried to a bricklayer. Jonson attended Westminster School before joining his stepfather in the bricklaying trade.

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To Celia
by Ben Jonson

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!

GO TO POLL

To Celia by Ben Jonson

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!

GO TO POLL

To Celia
by Ben Jonson

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!