Green are the leaves I leave in Mirkwood.

He stands not alone. You would die before your stroke fell.

We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious. They stole it from us. Sneaky little hobbitses. Wicked, tricksy, false!

War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.

Oft hope is born when all is forlorn.

All your long years we have been friends. Trust me as you once did, let it go