Drink to me, only with thine eyesAnd 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 riseDoth ask a drink divine:But might I of Jove's nectar supI would not change for thine.I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not withered beBut thou thereon didst only breathAnd sent'st it back to me:Since, when it grows and smells, I swear,Not of itself but thee.