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 night I of Jove's nectar sip, 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 there on did't only breathe And sent'st back to me, Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.