The poem
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.