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.

Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.

Hate pollutes the mind.

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.

Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.

Here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the king's English.

Now I will believe that there are unicorns.