Dost ask me, why I send thee here, This firstling of the infant year? Dost ask me, what this primrose shews, Bepearled thus with morning dews? I must whisper to thy ears, The sweets of love are wash'd with tears. This lovely native of the dale Thou seest, how languid, pensive, pale: Thou seest this bending stalk so weak, That each way yielding doth not break? I must tell thee, these reveal, The doubts and fears that lovers feel.