Drinke to me， onely， with thine eyes，

    And I will pledge with mine；

    Or leave a kisse but in the cup，

    And Ile not looke for wine.

    The thirst， that from the soule doth rise，

    Doth aske a drinke divine：

    But might I of Jove's Nectar sup，

    I would not change for thine.

    I sent thee， late， a rosie wreath，

    Not so much honoring thee，

    As giving it a hope， that there

    It could not withered¹ bee.

    But thou thereon did'st onely breath，

    And sent'st it back to mee：

    Since when it growes， and smells， I sweare，

    Not of it selfe， but thee.