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.