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Press me not to take more pleasure In this world of sugred lies, And to use a larger measure. Than my strict, yet welcome size. First, there is no pleasure here: Colour'd griefs indeed there are, Blushing woes, that look as clear As if they could beauty spare. Or if such deceits there be, Such delights I meant to say, There are no such things to me, Who have pass'd my right away. But I will not much oppose Unto what you now advise: Only take this gentle rose, And therein my answer lies. What is fairer than a rose? What is sweeter? yet it purgeth. Purgings enmity disclose, Enmity forbearance urgeth. If then all that worldlings prize Be contracted to a rose; Sweetly there indeed it lies, But it biteth in the close. So this flower doth judge and sentence Worldly joys to be a scourge: For they all produce repentance, And repentance is a purge. But I health, not physic choose: Only, though I you oppose, Say that fairly I refuse, For my answer is a rose.

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