To Celia

Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes, 
And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kisse but in the cup, 
And Ile not looke for wine.
 
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, 
Doth aske a drinke 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 bee.
 
But thou thereon did'st onely breath, 
And sent'st it back to mee: 
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare, 
Not of it selfe, but thee.
 

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