“Aziraphale. The Enemy, of course. But an enemy for six thousand years now, which made him a sort of friend.”

“Noble dragons don't have friends. The nearest they can get to the idea is an enemy who is still alive.”

“Ankh-Morpork! Pearl of cities! This is not a completely accurate description, of course — it was not round and shiny — but even its worst enemies would agree that if you had to liken Ankh-Morpork to anything, then it might as well be a piece of rubbish covered with the diseased secretions of a dying mollusc.”

“He's probably their battle poet, too." "You mean he makes up heroic songs about famous battles?" "No, no. He recites poems that frighten the enemy....When a well-trained gonnagle starts to recite, the enemy's ears explode.”

“He moved on, in the centre of a widening circle. He wasn't an enemy, he was a nemesis.”

“A weapon you held and didn't know how to use belonged to your enemy.”

“In thirty seconds you will wake up," said Aziraphale, to the entranced ex-nun. "And you will have had a lovely dream about whatever you like best, and—""Yes, yes, fine," sighed Crowley. "Now can we go?”