text: Drink to me only with thine eyes,
           And I will pledge with mine;
  Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
           And Ill not look for wine.
  The thirst that from the soul doth rise
           Doth ask a drink divine;
  But might I of Joves 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 didst only breathe,
           And sentst it back to me;
  Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
           Not of itself, but thee.