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 withered 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.