_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 bepearled with dew; I straight will whisper in your ears, The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me why this flower doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too; Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break; I must tell you, these discover What doubts and fears are in a lover.

CAREW.