E.B. Farnham: It's Hearst. Hearst: is he Caesar, to have fights to the death for diversion? Murder his workers at whim? Smash passages in the fucking wall? A man of less wealth would be in fucking restraints.
Al: We're in the presence of the new.
E.B.: Fuck the fucking new! Jesus Christ, Al. Is it over for us here?

E.B. Farnum: Al, if you're not dead and already moldering, I send news to revive you. A fish to rival the fabled Leviathan has swum into our waters. Get well soon and we'll land the cocksucker together. Your friend, E.B.

E.B. Farnum: Have we a new Pope?
Al Swearengen: She's some fuck, E.B..

E.B. Farnum: Some ancient Italian maxim fits our situation, whose particulars escape me.
Francis Wolcott: Is the gist that I'm shit outta luck?
Farnum: Did they speak that way then?

E.B. Farnum: Why, Al?
Al Swearengen: Why, E.B.? Because being present at that meeting and made as you are, blackmail would have proved irresistible and pursuing it would have gotten you murdered.

E.B.: Anything the mayor should know?
Al Swearengen: The name of another tailor.

E.B.: It is no disloyalty to be a realist, Richardson. We are mortal. One hopes for the best. One perseveres. One re-evaluates constantly. One is an asshole if one doesn't. Loyalty expanded is not loyalty betrayed. I contemplate no disloyalty to Al Swearengen. I feel exposed. I don't like being weak, and I know that I am. I yearn to rely on a stronger will. I fear what I'm capable of in its absence. Whereas you, Richardson, know nothing of yourself. Are you shitting or going blind? Or on foot or horseback? You vile fucking lump!

E.B.: What's he ever done for me? Except let him terrify me every goddamned day of his life 'til the idea of bowel regularity is a forlorn fuckin' hope.

Ellsworth: Whatever's toward what he wants. Not a flying fuck if it's true or how fucking soaked in blood.
Alma: That talk serves no purpose.
Ellsworth: What talk to a murderer does?
Hearst: I'd not be insulted in my own rooms, Mr. Ellsworth.
Ellsworth: Where shall we go for me to do it?

Ellsworth: Because them as poke around Miz Garret's workings without a by-your-leave ain't welcome, Mr. Wolcott, and you ought not to repeat your fuckin' mistake.
Wolcott: Well, that's an uncivil response to an innocent error.
Ellsworth: Did you work in the Comstock when you was beardless?
Wolcott: I did.
Ellsworth: For Mr. George Hearst, as a keen eye for the color?
Wolcott: As a geologist for Mr. Hearst. Well, you have the advantage of me, Mr. Ellsworth.
Ellsworth: That ain't a possibility, Wolcott. No more than an error of yours would be innocent.
Wolcott: I do dimly recall an Ellsworth superintended the consolidated Virginia operations.
Ellsworth: I don't give a fuck what you recall.
Wolcott: A hero. Dug a week without respite to save three poor souls from a cave-in.
Ellsworth: And 46 corpses in a fucking hole that ought never to have been dug.
Wolcott: Always a choice... to count the saved or the lost.
Ellsworth: Get off this property.
Wolcott: Just as a man opposed to inevitable change needn't invariably be called a Luddite, another choice might be simply to describe him as slow in his processes.
Ellsworth: You tell that cocksucker you work for the next surrogate he sends oughtn't to be bloodied from the Comstock.

Farnum: Puberty may bring you to understand what we take for mother-love is really murderous hatred and a desire for revenge.

Francis Wolcott: I am simply asking confirmation of what you were told and by whom.
Charlie Utter: And I'm promising I'll sooner blow off your fucking head, and take the fucking letter from your corpse than confide any fucking particulars.
Francis Wolcott: To me?
Charlie Utter: To any fucking one, when I give my word I wouldn't.

Francis Wolcott: I feel you breathing down my neck.
Charlie Utter: Should I exhale out my ass?
Francis Wolcott: And I believe you're doing it intentionally.
Charlie Utter: Why? You think I believe you're a fuckin' cunt?
Francis Wolcott: [turns to face Utter] If we fight, it won't be a casual matter.
Charlie Utter: Ohhh, I see you got your big fuckin' knife there, and hid somewhere on your persons you've probably got some pussified shootin' instrument. But I am good at first impressions, and you are a fucking cunt, and I DOUBT you've fought many MEN, maybe even ONE!

Francis Wolcott: On my order, Mr. Tolliver, Lee will burn this building, mutilating you before, during or after as I specify, or when he chooses unless I forbid.
Cy Tolliver: Oh, my full attention is at your disposal.

Francis Wolcott: Prudence dictates my requiring, in return, your account of what Miss Stubbs told you.
Charlie Utter: The prudentest thing you can do is not name that girl again with me in the fucking room.