- The Lady: Red is the color of lust, but green is what lust leaves behind, in heart, in womb. Green is what is left when ardor fades, when passion dies, when we die, too.
- The Lord: This house is full of strange things. But then again, I see things everywhere that bear no logic.
- The Lady: [to Gawain] When you go, your footprints will fill with grass. Moss shall cover your tombstone, and as the sun rises, green shall spread over all, in all its shades and hues. This verdigris will overtake your swords and your coins and your battlements and, try as you might, all you hold dear will succumb to it. Your skin, your bones. Your virtue.
- Green Knight, Queen: [as the Queen's voice overlaps with the Green Knight's while she reads his letter] Oh, greatest of kings, indulge me in this friendly Christmas game. Let whichever of your knights is boldest of blood and wildest of hearts step forth, take up arms and try with honor to land a blow against me. Whomsoever nicks me shall lay claim to this my arm. Its glory and riches shall be thine. But... thy champ must bind himself to this: should he land a blow, then one year and Yuletide hence, he must seek me out yonder to the Green Chapel six nights to the north. He shall find me there and bend a knee and let me strike him in return, be it a scratch on the cheek or a cut in the throat. I will return what was given me, and then in trust and friendship, we shall part. Who, then, who is willing to engage with me?
- Scavenger: You rest your bones, my brave little knight. I'll finish your quest for you. I'll finish it good.
- The Lady: Why is he Green, do you think?
- Gawain: The Knight?
- The Lady: Yes. Was he born that way?
- The Lord: Maybe it is the color of his blood when he blushes.
- The Lady: But why green? Why not blue? Or red?
- Gawain: Because he is not of this earth.
- The Lady: But green is the color of the earth. Of living things. Of life.
- Gawain: And of rot.
- The Lady: Yes. We deck our halls with it, dye our linens, but should it come creeping up the cobbles, we scrub it out, fast as we can. When it blooms beneath our skin, we bleed it out. And when we, together all, find that our reach has exceeded our grasp, we cut it down, we stamp it out, we spread ourselves atop it and smother it beneath our bellies. But it comes back. It does not dally; nor does it wait to plot or conspire. Pull it out by its roots one day, and the next there it is, creeping in around the edges. Whilst we're off looking for red, in comes green. Red is the color of lust, but green is what lust leaves behind--in heart, in womb. Green is what is left when ardor fades, when passion dies, when we die, too. When you go your footprints will fill with grass; moss will cover over your tombstone. And as the sun rises, green shall spread over all, in all its shades and hues. The verdigris will overtake your swords and your coins and your battlements, and, try as you might, all you hold dear will succumb to it. Your skin, your bones. Your virtue.