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.