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to celia

Drink to me, onely, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And I'll 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 bee.
But thou thereon did'st onely breathe,
And sent'st it backe to me:
Since when it growes, and smells,
I sweare, Not of it self, but thee.