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 honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there 
    It could not withered be.
But thou theron didst only breathe,
    And sent'st it back to me;
Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,
    Not of itself, but thee.