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Poem	Upon this Primrose hill, Where, if Heav'n would distil A shower of rain, each several drop might go To his own primrose, and grow manna so; And where their form and their infinity Make a terrestrial Galaxy, As the small stars do in the sky: I walk to find a true Love; and I see That 'tis not a mere woman that is she, But must or more or less than woman be. Yet know I not which flower I wish; a six, or four; For should my true-Love less than woman be She were scarce any thing; and then, should she Be more than woman she would get above All thought of sex, and think to move My heart to study her, and not to love; Both these were monsters; since there must reside Falsehood in woman, I could more abide She were by art than Nature falsified. Live primrose then, and thrive With thy true number five; And woman, whom this flower doth represent, With this mysterious number be content; Ten is the farthest number; if half ten Belong unto each woman, then Each woman may take half us men; Or if this will not serve their turn, since all Numbers are odd or even, and they fall First into this, five, woman may take us all.
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