Cutler Beckett

— You're mad.
— Thank goodness for that, because if I wasn't, this would probably never work.

— And you can accomplish all this, can you?
— You may kill me, but you may never insult me. Who am I?... I'm Captain Jack Sparrow.

The immaterial has become immaterial.

— You be the cur that led these wolves to our door.
— Don't blame Turner. He was merely the tool of your betrayal. If you wish to see its grand architect, look to your left.
— My hands are clean in this. Figuratively.

This is no longer your world, Jones.

Every man has a price he will willingly accept. Even for what he hoped never to sell.

Despair leads to betrayal.

— «Letters of Marque». You will offer what amounts to a full pardon. Jack will be free, a privateer in the employ of England.
— Somehow I doubt Jack will consider employment the same as being free.
— Freedom. Jack Sparrow is a dying breed. The world is shrinking, the blank edges of the map filled in. Jack must find his place in the New World or perish. Not unlike you, Mr Turner.

There's something to knowing the exact shape of the world and one's place in it.

— I've got this wonderful compass which points to whatever I want. So for what do I need you?
<...>
— Points to the thing you want most. And that is not the Brethren Court, is it?
— Then what is, Jack?
— Me. Dead.

— No doubt you've discovered that loyalty is no longer the currency of the realm, as your father believes.
— Then what is?
— I'm afraid currency is the currency of the realm.