The Primrose

Ask me why I send you here,

The firstling of the infant year;

Ask me why I send to you,

This primrose all bepearl'd with dew;

I straight will whisper in your ears

The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me why this flower doth shew

So yellow, green, and sickly too:

Ask me why the stalk is weak

And bending yet it doth not break;

I must tell you, these discover

What doubts and fears are in a lover.