IX: Song: To Celia

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.