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Village Elder
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And i will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And i will 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 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.

Poem by
Ben Jonson
Borrowed from pocket book of popular verse.
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