TO CELIA

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 didst only breathe,

   And sent’st it back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

   Not of itself, but thee.