Drink to me, onely, with thine eyes. and I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kisses but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soule doth rise,
Doth asks a drink 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 backe to me;
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it self'e, but thee.