If a drink to you with thine eyes,
I will pledge too with mine;
Leaving a kiss but in the cup,
And just not look for wine.
The thirst is from the soul doth rise
And ask a drink divine;
If you might of Jove's nectar sup,
You would not change for thine.
You sent me late a rosy wreath,
Takes no much honour to me
You giving it a hope, will there
That's s could not withered be.
But me a while ago take breathe,
And feels it backs to me.
But when it growns and smells, I swear,
No one itself, but me.
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