Gandalf: They guard it because they have hope. A faint and fading hope that one day it will flower. That a king will come and this city will be as it once was before it fell into decay. The old wisdom born out of the west was forsaken. Kings made tombs more splendid than the houses of the living and counted the old names of their descent dearer than the names of their sons. Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry or in high, cold towers asking questions of the stars. And so the people of Gondor fell into ruin. The line of Kings failed. The white tree withered. The rule of Gondor was given over to lesser men.
Pippin: I never thought it would end this way.
Gandalf: End? No, the journey does not end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take... The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass... And then you see it...
Pippin: What, Gandalf? See what?
Gandalf: White shores... And beyond... A far green country under a swift sunrise.
Pippin: Well, that isn't so bad.
Gandalf: No... No, it isn't.
Sherlock Holmes: A man abandoned his family and wrote his son a story. He wouldn't be the first to cloak his cowardice in a flag of sacrifice.
Sherlock Holmes: I was given a small chest containing the Watson stories, none of which I'd ever actually read. They were, as John always described them, penny dreadfuls with an elevated prose style.
Sherlock Holmes: And so ends the story about a woman who died before her time, and a man who had long outlived his.
Lady Anne: No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.
Richard III: But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
Lord Rivers: To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?
Richard III: To you, who have neither honesty, nor Grace.
Queen Elizabeth: I have no more sons of the royal blood for you to slaughter.
Richard III: You have a daughter.