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To Celia

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 5 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 10 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 15 Not of itself but thee!

Poem by Ben Jonson
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