To my little...

Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,
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 aske 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 selfe, but thee.