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The Song Book |
47 |
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XXXV
DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES
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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.
Words by Ben Jonson. Tune Anon. |
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