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)? I will answer:—These discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.