TO CELIA.
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RINK to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I’ll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine:But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring thee,As giving it a hope that thereIt 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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