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 ask for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's[2] nectar[3] 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!