Under the Greenwood Tree

by 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 we 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.