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