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Under the greene wood tree, / Who loves to lye with mee, / And turne his merrie Note, / Unto the sweet Birds throte: / Come hither, come hither, come hither: / Heere shall he see no enemie, / But Winter and rough Weather.
Under the greene wood tree, / Who loves to lye with mee, / And turne his merrie Note, / Unto the sweet Birds throte: / Come hither, come hither, come hither: / Heere shall he see no enemie, / But Winter and rough Weather.