The Primrose.

ASke me why I send you here,
This firs…ling of the infant yeare:
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 loves.