W. 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.