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 wither'd 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!