Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in my 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 withered be.

But thou thereon didst hardly breathe,
And send'st it back to me-
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.