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188
The Primrose.
Aske me why I send you here,
This firstling of the infant veare:
Aske me why I send to you,
This Primrose all bepearl'd with dew.
I strait will whisper in your eares,
The sweets of love are wash't with teares.
This firstling of the infant veare:
Aske me why I send to you,
This Primrose all bepearl'd with dew.
I strait will whisper in your eares,
The sweets of love are wash't with teares.
Aske me why this flower doth shew,
So yellow greene and sickly too:
Aske me why the stalke is weake;
And bending yet it doth not breake;
I must tell you these discover,
What doubts and feares are in a lover.
So yellow greene and sickly too:
Aske me why the stalke is weake;
And bending yet it doth not breake;
I must tell you these discover,
What doubts and feares are in a lover.
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