195. The Primrose
Ask me why I send you hereThis sweet Infanta of the year?Ask me why I send to youThis Primrose, thus bepearl’d with dew?I will whisper to your ears,—The sweets of love are mixt with tears.
Ask me why this flower does showSo yellow-green, and sickly too?Ask me why the stalk is weakAnd bending, yet it doth not break?I will answer,—these discoverWhat fainting hopes are in a lover.