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 wither'd 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！