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.
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.
Thou lump of foul deformity!
Love is too young to know what conscience is.
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.