I now think love is rather deaf, than blind, For else it could not be, That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my love behind: I'm sure my language was as sweet, And every close did meet In sentence of as subtle feet As hath the youngest he, That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. Oh, but my conscious fears, That fly my thoughts between, Tell me that she hath seen My hundreds of gray hairs, Told seven and forty years, Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace My mountain belly and my rock face, As all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears.
Ben Jonson - 1572-1637
Song to Celia
Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kisse but in the cup, And Ile not looke for wine. The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, Doth aske a drinke divine: But might I of Jove's Nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath, Not so much honoring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered bee. But thou thereon did'st onely breath, And sent'st it back to mee: Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare, Not of it selfe, but thee.