Until lions have their historians, tales of the hunt shall always glorify the hunter.
This fairy tale we're living is real inside our hearts.
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Everyman's life is a fairy tale written by God's fingers.
Whanne that Aprille with his shoures sote The droughte of March hath perced to the rote.
I hold a mouses wit not worth a leke, That hath but one hole for to sterten to.
This is the fairy land; O spite of spites, We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites.
By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: Lovers to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
Who so shall telle a tale after a man, He moste reherse, as neighe as ever he can, Everich word, if it be in his charge, All speke he never so rudely and so large.
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Spare me the fairy tales Camille, Black Fury
Fairy tales! Ghosts and goblins! Hengist
Sorry kid. I don't believe in fairy tales Freddy Krueger