Give a kiss within the cup, and I'll not ask for wine.
A first mate from the soul doth rise, doth ask a drink divine.
But by thy old dues laid aside, I would not change for thine.
I'll send thee later rosy wreaths, not so much unwraithed.
As giving it a hope that there it could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst own me breathe, and sent it back to me.
Since when it grows and smells, I swear not of itself, but thee.
THE END
