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 5
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 honoring thee, 10
As giving hope that there
It could not withered be
But thou thereto didst only breathe
And sent it back to me;
Since when it grows and smells, I swear, 15
Not of itself, but thee.