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 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 be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent it back to me;
Since when it grows and smells,
Not of itself, but thee.
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