Under the Greenwood Tree

[93. William Shakespeare]

Under the greenwood tree

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat—

Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun

And loves to live i’ the sun,

Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets—

Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.