BEN JONSON

*

Song 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 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.

*

Clerimont’s Song

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

 

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.