Real comedy is never written in the spirit of good, clean fun (whatever that is), and the author of Roses is properly merciless in showing people living up to their personal and national stereotypes. But Susan Levine, a Wellesley senior, issues no bitter, damning statement on the nature of prejudice; in fact, she knows it can work two ways.

The scene is set at a party. An aggressive hostess is urging Rosie, a reject from a Pete Seeger concert, to strum her ole guitar. Rosie offers a little tune she picked up from an oppressed refugee once...

Then Jake and "The Doctor" appear. The former is an Israeli med student who sizes up and sets out to make Rosie. He exaggerates and capitalizes on his foreigness; as a refugee, an exile, a poor Jewish citizen of the world, Jake begins to score with the leotarded guitar strummer.

"The Doctor," on the other hand, is cold and frightened. If Rosie is ridiculous in collecting experience, "The Doctor" is sick in avoiding it. And as he reveals in a final, disproportionate soliloquy, he is afraid of love just as she is open to it.

Miss Levine's accomplishment lies in pulling free of the South Pacific cliches which the theme so temptingly suggests. She knows you've got to be taught to hate and fear and oppose foreign aid, but she is amused by the fact that once taught, people caricature themselves so willingly.

Director Frances Royster has used a deft hand in keeping Roses abloom. For better or worse, her refusal to relinquish a good, crackling laugh turns the serious side of the play into something of a non-sequitur. Miss Levine may, of course, have written it in as such. At any rate, John McLean acquits himself with versatility and a feeling for the contradictions of "The Doctor's" character. Jane Schroeder is marvellously funny as the hostess, and as Rosie, Deborah Steinberg may yet prove the playmate of the western world.

Obviously, Roses has its thorns. Several jokes are self-consciously coarse (every Wellesley girl has her own way of announcing that she isn't a typical product of that place), and at times the author seems only to be getting some philosophy off her chest. But this is a young playwright's prerogative, and Miss Levine certainly doesn't abuse it.

If the transplanted Wellesley production takes in new soil, the Loeb will be offering a bouquet tomorrow.