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The Primrose

 Ask me why I send you here
The 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.

by Thomas Carew
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