Classic Poem

Press me not to take more pleasure
In this world of sug'red lies,
And to use a larger measure
Then my strict, yet welcome size.

First, there is no pleasure here:
Coloured 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 passed 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 worldings 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.