Drink to me, only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within 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 nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much hon'ring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither'd be;
But thou there-on didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of it- self, but thee.