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Copyright 2004

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Text by Ben Johnson (1573-1637)

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!

Fall 1988