The Primrose
Upon this Primrose hill,Where, if Heav'n would distilA shower of rain, each several drop might goTo his own primrose, and grow manna so;And where their form and their infinityMake a terrestrial Galaxy,As the small stars do in the sky:I walk to find a true Love; and I seeThat 'tis not a mere woman that is she,But must or more or less than woman be.
Yet know I not which flowerI wish; a six, or four;For should my true-Love less than woman beShe were scarce any thing; and then, should sheBe more than woman she would get aboveAll thought of sex, and think to moveMy heart to study her, and not to love;Both these were monsters; since there must resideFalsehood in woman, I could more abideShe were by art than Nature falsified.
Live primrose then, and thriveWith thy true number five;And woman, whom this flower doth represent,With this mysterious number be content;Ten is the farthest number; if half tenBelong unto each woman, thenEach woman may take half us men;Or if this will not serve their turn, since allNumbers are odd or even, and they fallFirst into this, five, woman may take us all.
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