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( 8 ) The thirst which in my soul doth rise, Does ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove’s Nectar sip, I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. Not so much honouring thee; And giving it a hope that there. It could not wither’d be.

But thou therein did only breathe, And sent it back to me; Since when, it looks, and smells, I swear Not of itself, but thee.

