Drink to me only with thine eye,
And I will pledge thee mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from my soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of love's nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there,
It would not withered be.
But thou there on did'st only breathe,
And sent it back to me;
Since then, its perfume is, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.