Cold Comfort Farm

Ada Doom:
I saw something nasty in the woodshed!

Earl P. Neck:
Sure you did, but did it see you, baby?

Flora Poste:
Highly sexed young men living on farms are always called Seth or Reuben.

Flora Poste:
It was winter. The grimmest hour of the darkest day of the year. The Golden Orb had almost disappeared behind the interlacing fingers of the hawthorn.

Flora Poste:
Jane Austen and I have so much in common - neither of us can endure a mess.

Flora Poste:
When I am 53, I hope to write a novel as good as "Persuasion," but in a modern setting, of course.

Mybug:
I must warn you. I'm a queer, moody brute, but there's some rich dirt in here if you're willing to dig

Earl P. Neck:
I don't want sissies. It's red meat time in the movies.

Charles:
We are all purified by suffering.

Amos Starkadder:
I'm going to go all about in a Ford van. Like the apostles of old, I'll go about the land.

Flora Poste:
Nature's all very well in her place, but there's no reason to be untidy.

Mybug:
We met in London.

Amos Starkadder:
Aye, the Devil's city. The stinking pit of whoredom.

Mrs. Smiling:
I mean there probably isn't even a bathroom.

Flora Poste:
It is Sussex, for goodness' sake.

Mrs. Smiling:
In fact, when poetry is combined with ill-groomed hair and eccentric dress, it's generally fatal. You're very lucky, Elfine. He must have seen your finer points.

Mrs. Smiling:
It's bad to be dewy-eyed around smart people, but you can always secretly despise them.

Flora Poste:
I try to bring people around to the higher common sense.

Ada Doom:
There has always been Starkadders on Cold Comfort Farm.

Amos Starkadder:
Seth, drain the well. There's a neighbor missing.

Amos Starkadder:
Ye miserable, crawlin' worms. Are ye here again then? Have ye come like Nimshi, son of Rehoboam, secretly out of your doomed houses, to hear what's comin' to ye? Have ye come, old and young, sick and well, matrons and virgins, if there be any virgins amongst you, which is not likely, the world being in the wicked state that it is. Have ye come to hear me tell you of the great, crimson, licking flames of hell fire? Aye! You've come, dozens of ye. Like rats to the granary, like field mice when it's harvest home. And what good will it do ye? You're all damned! Damned! Do you ever stop to think what that word means? No, you don't. It means endless, horrifying torment! It means your poor, sinful bodies stretched out on red-hot gridirons, in the nethermost, fiery pit of hell and those demons mocking ye while they waves cooling jellies in front of ye. You know what it's like when you burn your hand, taking a cake out of the oven, or lighting one of them godless cigarettes? And it stings with a fearful pain, aye? And you run to clap a bit of butter on it to take the pain away, aye? Well, I'll tell ye, there'll be no butter in hell!

Charles:
Do you ever think of getting married?

Flora Poste:
I believe in arranged marriages, don't you?

Charles:
Rather out of date.

Flora Poste:
Not at all. I've always like the phrase, "A marriage has been arranged." When I feel like it, I'll arrange one.