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 rosy¹ 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！