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 ask 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 hon'ring 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
 Not of itself, but thee