THOU ART NOT FOR THE FASHION OF THESE TIMES, WHERE NONE WILL SWEAT BUT FOR PROMOTION.

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.