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Drink 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 rise, Doth 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 there It could not withered
be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st back to me: Since when it grows, and
smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.. |
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