The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/The Rose

by George Herbert

For works with similar titles, see The Rose.

¶ The Rose.

Presse me not to take more pleasureIn this world of sugred lies,And to use a larger measureThen my strict, yet welcome size.

First, there is no pleasure here:Colour'd griefs indeed there are,Blushing woes, that look as cleareAs 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 opposeUnto 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 prizeBe contracted to a rose;Sweetly there indeed it lies,But it biteth in the close.

So this flow'r doth judge and sentenceWorldly joyes to be a scourge:For they all produce repentance,And repentance is a purge.

But I health, not physick choose:Onely though I you oppose,Say that fairly I refuse,For my answer is a rose.

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