Drink To Me, Only, With Thine Eyes, And I Will Pledge With Mine; Or Leave A Kisse But In The Cup, And Ile Not Look For Wine. The Thirst, That From The Soule Doth Rise, Doth Aske A Drink Divine: But Might I Of Jove'S Nectar Sup, I Would Not Change For Thine. I Sent Thee, Late, A Rosie Wreath, Not So Much Honoring Thee, As Giving It A Hope, That There It Could Not Withered Be. But Thou Thereon Did'St Onely Breathe, And Sent'St It Back To Mee: Since When It Growes, And Smells, I Sweare, Not Of It Selfe, But Thee.