  Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn 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. W. Shakespeare |
|
