“When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit! To-who!—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doe blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit! To-who!—a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.”

“Under the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with meAnd tune his merry note,Unto the sweet bird's throat;Come hither, come hither, come hither.Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.”

“The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.”

“It is not night when I do see your face,Therefore I think I am not in the night;Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,For you in my respect are all the world:Then how can it be said I am alone,When all the world is here to look on me?”

“When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,For all the day they view things unrespected;But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,How would thy shadow's form form happy showTo the clear day with thy much clearer light,When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed madeBy looking on thee in the living day,When in dead night thy fair imperfect shadeThrough heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!All days are nights to see till I see thee,And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.”

“When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,Threatening the welking with his big-swoln face?And wilt though have a reason for this coil?I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow!She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:Then must my sea be moved with her sighs;Then must my earth with her continual tearsBecome a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd;For why my bowels cannot hide her woes,But like a drunkard must I vomit them.Then give me leave, for losers will have leaveTo ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.”

“The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wondersAt out quaint spirits.”