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Drink to me only with thin 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 honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe, And send'st it back to me;
Since when it grows and smells, I swear
Not of itself but thee!

Sincerely,
me

Sonnet No. 71

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee .

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