Chaucer: Good people, I missed my introduction. But please... Please I pray you, hear it now, for I would lay rest the grace in my tongue and speak plainly. Days like these are far too rare to cheapen with heavy handed words, and so, I'm afraid without any ado whatsoever... Excuse me My Lord... Here he is, one of your own, born a stone's throw from this very stadium, and here before you now, the son of John Thatcher... Sir Wiiiiiilliam Thatcheeer.
William: Father, I am afraid, I won't know the way back home.
John Thatcher: Don't be foolish, William, you just follow your feet.
Adhemar: And how would you beat him?
Retired Knight: With a stick. While he slept. But on a horse, with a lance? That man is unbeatable.
Roland: Well, that was different.
Chaucer: Well, it's time we celebrate our differences.
Roland: Just maybe not in public.
Wat: We're English, Geoff! We know who he is.
Wat: Uh, betray us, and I will fong you, until your insides are out, your outsides are in, your entrails will become your extrails I will w-rip... all the p... ung. Pain, lots of pain.
William: Well then a fox you shall be until I find your name, my foxy lady.
Jocelyn: Run and I will run with you.
William: I cannot run.
William: Where will we live? In my hovel? With the pigs inside during the winter so they won't freeze?
Jocelyn: Yes, William. With the pigs.
Jocelyn: Even the peasants can marry for love.
William: Your name lady, I still need to hear it.
Jocelyn: Sir hunter, you persist.
William: Or perhaps angels have no names, only beautiful faces.
William: For that I say my rosary to her and no-one else.
Wat: Will, that's blasphemy.
Wat: You have been weighed.
Roland: You have been measured.
Kate: And you have absolutely.
Chaucer: Been found wanting.
William: Welcome to New World. God save you, if it is right that He should do so.
William: Love has given me wings so I must fly.
Wat: We're the sons of peasants. Glory, and riches, and stars are beyond our grasps. But a full stomach, that dream can come true.
Chaucer: I give the truth, scope.
William: If I could ask God one thing, it would be to stop the moon. Stop the moon and make this night and your beauty last forever.
William: You favour cathedrals.
Jocelyn: I come for confession. And the glass... a riot of color in a dreary, grey world.
Peter The Pardoner of Rouen: He assured us that you, his liege, would pay us.
William: And you are?
Peter The Pardoner of Rouen: Peter. A humble Pardoner and purveyor of religious relics.
Chaucer: It's a small target Will, but aim for his heart.