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.