To Show Our Simple Skill, That Is

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.

What My Tongue Dares Not That My Heart Shall Say

Sin From Thy Lips? O Trespass Sweetly Urged! Give Me My Sin Again.

In Struggling With Misfortunes Lies The True Proof Of Virtue.

And To Be Merry Best Becomes You; For, Out Of Question, You Were Born In A Merry Hour. Beatrice No, Sure, My Lord, My Mother Cried; But Then There Was A Star Danced, And Under That Was I Born.