Then shouldering their burdens, they set off, seeking a path that would bring them over the grey hills of the Emyn Muil, and down into the Land of Shadow.

It is mine, I tell you. My own. My precious. Yes, my precious.

I invented that little rhyme about 'One Ring to rule them all', I remember, in the bath one day.

Tell me, who are you, alone, yourself and nameless?

I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver, and go where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate. . . If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.

For if joyful is the fountain that rises in the sun, its springs are in the wells of sorrow unfathomable at the foundations of the Earth.

He that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.