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.

Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.

Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.

But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.

What the great ones do, the less will prattle of

O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!

Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.