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 Love’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 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. (1572-1637)

Ces articles peuvent aussi vous intéresser

Notre site utilise des 'cookies' pour améliorer votre expérience et son utilisation. Si vous le refusez vous pouvez les désactiver. Accepter En savoir plus