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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 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 honoring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon dids't only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. [–Philostratus (Trans. by Ben Johnson)] |
copyright, Kellscraft Studio, 1999 (Return to Web Text-ures) |
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