Song

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here he shall see
No enemy
But wind and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas’d with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here he shall see
No enemy
But wind and rough weather

— William Shakespeare,
from As You Like It