PRIMROSE. 
The flower you seek, the nymph replies, 
Has bow’d the languid head; 
For on its bloom the blazing skies 
Their sultry rage have shed. 
Yet search yon shade obscure, forlorn, 
Where rude the bramble grows; 
There, shaded by the humble thorn, 
The lingering primrose blows. 
TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 
HERRICK. 
Why do you weep? Can tears 
Speak grief in you 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teem’d her refreshing dew? 
Alas! you have not known that shower 
That mars a flower; 
Nor felt th’ unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind; 
Nor are ye worn with years; 
Nor warp’d as we, 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
To speak by tears before ye have a tongue. 
