- Hopfrog: [on the chandelier chain, watching the King and his ministers burn] I now see distinctly what manner of people these masked beasts are! They are a great king and his seven privy councillors... a king who does not scruple to strike a defenseless girl and his seven councillors who abet himm in the outrage! As for myself, I am simply Hopfrog the Jester and this is my last jest!
- Minister: [to Trippetta, who is sewing up his ourangutang costume] Prick me with that needle, sweet thing... and *I* will *prick* you!
- Minister: [at the banquet] The table is the only place where a man is never bored for the first hour.
- Lady: I can't say the same for a woman.
- Minister: Shoot it, skin it, chop it, boil it, serve it, eat it!
- Minister: [Hopfrog is sewing him into his costume] Hopfrog, this had better be worth it or I'll have your hide encased in your bretheren shit for a week!
- Hopfrog: Stitch six hundred and absolutely, my lord, sounds good, my lord, excuse me, my lord!
- Minister: [while getting dressed in the barn] Fumes and farts... fumes and farts!
- The King: I say there is no arse-wiper like a well-downed goose if you hold her neck between your legs! Take my word for it, you get a miracuous sensation in your arse-hole both from the softness of the down and from the temperate heat of the goose herself, and this is easily communicated to the bum, gut and the rest of the intestines from which it reaches the heart and brain!
- Hopfrog: [reciting] Hear your Hopfrog with his bells, silver bells/What a world of merriment their melody fortells!/How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle in the icy air of night/while the stars that over-sprinkle all the heavens/Seem to twinkle with a crystilline delight!
- Hopfrog: [last lines, in a voiceover] Hear the tolling of the bells/ Iron bells!/What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!/In the silence of the night/How we shiver with affright/At the melancholy menace of their tone/For every sound that floats/From the rust within their throats/Is a groan/And the people... ah, the people/They that dwell up in the steeple/All alone/And who tollling, tolling, tolling/In that muffled monotone/Feel a glory in so rolling/On the human heart a stone/They are neither man nor woman/They are neight brute nor human/They are Ghouls/And their King it is who tolls/And he rolls, rolls, rolls/Rolls a paean from the bells/And his merry bosom swells/With the paean of the bells/And he dances and he yells/Keeping time, time, time/In a sort of runic rhyme/To the paean of the bells/Of the bells/Keeping time, time, time/In a sort of runic rhyme/To the throbbing of the bells/Of the bells, bells, bells/To the sobbing of the bells/Keeping time, time, time/As he knells, knells, knells/In a happy runic rhyme/To the rolling of the bells/Of the bells, bells, bells/To the tolling of the bells/Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells/To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.