What E'er You Are That In This

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.

The Pleasant'st Angling Is To See The Fish Cut With Her Golden Oars The Silver Stream And Greedily Devour The Treacherous Bait.

Misery Makes Sport To Mock Itself.

Gently To Hear, Kindly To Judge.

Where Civil Blood Makes Civil Hands Unclean