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 withered be.
But
thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st back
to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.