“Ariel contributed nothing to the speculation, instead crossing his arms one over the other. The action recalled his butterfly familiars from the skies, and they flocked to him with eager wing beats."Bats!" Moth flailed at the air. "Vampire bats!""Don't be ridiculous," Peaseblossom said with a sniff. "Vampire bats don't sparkle.”

“About the time he threatened her nose with his finger, Peaseblossom lost her grip on the situation with the boys. The door crashed open, and three irate fairies launched themselves at the Stage Manager. Cobweb and Moth pelted him with sequins while Mustardseed rammed beads into his ears."Dance!" they commanded, and dance he did, hopping with impotent anger and pain from one foot to the other as he batted his meaty hands at them.”

“She's under duress," Peaseblossom said."I don't care if she's under duress, over it, or alongside it," Moth said. "Nothing in this world supersedes cake.”

“Ariel looked at her then, instead of the sky, instead of the horizon that surely beckoned to him. “Out of a thousand different winds, I think I can resist nine hundred and ninety-nine of them.Now she was the one unable to swallow. “And the last one?” "That one wrenches the beating heart from my chest, the blood from my veins, the marrow from my bones.” Grasping her hand, he brought it up to his face and rubbed it against his cheek. Pain radiated from his pale skin, from his eyes, from his lips when they grazed her knuckles. “You’ve two birds to do your bidding, my fair huntress, but I want you to choose me, to love me above all others, to make the pain in my soul worthwhile… or I would be free of you.”

“How can she create with all your negative energy?""Yeah, man. You're bringing us down.""This is about as low as it gets," Ariel said. "Where did you get those ridiculous black berets?"Moth adjusted his recently donned beatnik attire. "This is what the hip cats wear , daddy-o.""Can you dig it?" Cobweb stroked a few wisps of fake chin hair, while the others nodded and snapped their fingers.”

“You didn't just write the play, Bertie," Peaseblossom said suddenly. "You ordered the Players about, shouted, and threw an artistic hissy fit. Do you know what that makes you?" "A temperamental fusspot?" Mustardseed guessed. "Crazier than a bag full of crazy?" Moth said. "Close," Peaseblossom said. "It makes her a Director.”

“Maybe I didn't try as hard as I ought when he started calling you names. Serves him right, the nasty old turd. Punch him again, Moth" - Peaseblossom”