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.
