IX Song To Celia

Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,  And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kisse but in the cup,  And Ile not look for wine.

The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,  Doth aske a drink 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 be.

But thou thereon did'st onely breathe,  And sent'st it back to mee:

Since when it growes, and smells,

I sweare,  Not of it selfe, but thee.