William: For that I say my rosary to her and no-one else.
Wat: William, that's blasphemous.
Chaucer: We regret to inform your lady that my lord will not be attending...
William: Herald, do not answer questions you do not know the answer to!
Chaucer: Absolutely, my lord.
William: I can't explain it. She makes me feel like a poet.
Roland: Well you may feel like a poet, but you sound like an idiot. You don't even know her name.
Wat: What do you mean, dead?
Roland: The spark of his life is smothered in shite. His spirit is gone but his stench remains. Does that answer your question?
Chaucer: All human activity lies within the artist's scope.
[Looks at Wat]
Chaucer: Maybe not yours.
Jocelyn: I demand poetry, and when I want it, and I want it now.
William: Your breasts... they're beneath your throat.
Jocelyn: Your name makes no matter to me, so long as I may call you my own.
William: Oh, but I am your own, Jocelyn.
Adhemar: Why didn't Ulrich finished him?
Jocelyn: He shows mercy.
Adhemar: Then he shows his weakness - that is all mercy is.
William: I've waited my whole life for this moment.
Wat: You've waited your whole life for Sir Ector to shite himself to death?
Chaucer: There she is, William. The embodiment of love. Your Venus.
William: And how I hate her.
Wat: I don't understand women.
Chaucer: Nor do I. But they understand us. Well, maybe not you.
William: [on asking Kate to mend his armor] It's just as well, they said I was daft for even asking.
William: The other armorers.
Kate: Is it because I'm a woman?
William: No, that said you were great with horseshoes, but shite with armor. The fact that you were a woman wasn't even mentioned.