Virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon.
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 shall he see no enemy But winter and rough weather.
Truth make all things plain.
Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will; much more a man, who hath any honesty in him.
Trifles light as air Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
To speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your mothers, which is most infallible disobedience.
To me and to the state of my great grief Let kings assemble; for my grief’s so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
To do a great right, do a little wrong.
Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, wherein he puts alms for oblivion.
