Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary

You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes; still am I King of those.

Taste your legs, sire: put them into motion.

Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.

The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.

The old folk, time's doting chronicles.