The Primrose

Ask me why I send you here

This sweet Infanta of the year?

Ask me why I send to you

This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?

I will whisper to your ears:—

The sweets of love are mix'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show

So yellow-green, and sickly too?

Ask me why the stalk is weak

And bending (yet it doth not break)?