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 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 withered be.
But thou thereon did’st only breathe,
    And sent’st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
    Not of itself, but thee.

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