The Primrose

Ask me why I send you

The firstling of the infant year;

Ask me why I send to

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

So yellow, green, and sickly too;

Ask me why the stalk is

And bending, yet it doth not break:

I must tell you, these

What doubts and fears are in a lover.