My own dear mother was a martyr indeed, and it is not to everybody that God grants so easy a way to his great gifts as he did to Hilary and myself, giving us a mother who killed herself with labour and trouble to ensure us keeping the faith.

Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.

What has roots as nobody sees, Is taller than trees Up, up it goes, And yet never grows? A mountain.

Oft hope is born when all is forlorn.

Green are the leaves I leave in Mirkwood.

I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.

Thief, thief, thief! Baggins! We hates it, we hates it, we hates it forever!