Poetry Archives

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.