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 bepearled with dew:

I straight will whisper in your ears,

The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me why this flower doth show

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.