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!