Presse 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 cleare,
As if they could beautie 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 oppse
Unto what you now advise:
Onely take this gentle rose,
And therein my answer lies.
What is fairer then a rose?
What is sweeter? yet it purgeth.
Purgings enmitie disclose,
Enmitie 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 joyes to be a scourge:
For they all produce repentance,
And repentance is a purge.
But I health, not physick choose:
Onely through I you oppose,
Say that fairly I refuse,
For my answer is a rose.
