University of Virginia Library


50

The Primrose.

Ask me why I send you here,
This firstling of the Infant year?
Ask me why I send to you,
This Primrose all be-pearl'd with dew?
I must whisper to your Eares,
The sweets of Love are wash'd with tears.
Ask me why this Rose doth show
All yellow, green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And yeelding each way, yet not break?
I must tell you, These discover
What doubts and fears are in a Lover.