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.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.

Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to.

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.

You have witchcraft in your lips