DRINK to me only with thine eyes,été And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not ask for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove’s nectar sip, 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 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._
BEAUTIES, have you seen this toy, Called love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say! He is Venus’ runaway.
He hath of marks about him plenty; Ye shall know him among twenty; All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian’s shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother.
Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet; All his practice is deceit, Every gift is but a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason in his tears.
If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him, Though ye had a will to hide him. Now, we hope, ye’ll not abide him, Since ye hear his falser play, And that he’s Venus’ runaway. _Ben Jonson._
LOVE in my bosom like a bee Doth suck his sweet: Now with his wings he plays with me, Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest, His bed amidst my tender breast: My kisses are his daily feast, And yet he robs me of my rest. Ah, wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee The live-long night. Strike I my lute, he tunes the string, He music plays if so I sing, He lends me every lovely thing: Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence: And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence. I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in, I’ll make you fast it for your sin, I’ll count your power not worth a pin; Alas, what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me?