The primrose

Aske me why I send you here,

this firstling of the Infant yeere;

aske me why I send to you,

this Primrose all bepearl'd with dew,

I must whisper to your Eares,

the sweets of Love are wash'd with teares.

Aske me why this Rose doth show

All yellow, green, and sickly too?

Aske me why the stalk is weak,

And yielding each way, yet not break?

I must tell you, these discover

What doubts and fears, are in a Lover.