lunes, 17 de junio de 2013


Drink to me only with thine eyes,
     And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup
     And I'll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
     Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectarsip,
     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!

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