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 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！