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 would not wither’d be,
But thou thereon did’st only breathe,
And sent it back to me;
Since then, it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.