Master. Master sleeps. Good master, sleeps so quiet, so pretty. Good Master likes us, likes Sméagol. Not like nasty Hobbit. Master likes Sméagol, is like Sméagol. Has the Precious. When is our birthday, precious? When will we get the Precious? When the reeds turn brown and the apples are sweet, then is our birthday. Master like Déagol, gives us the Precious. He knew we needed our Precious, and he came back with it. So nice to us, so nice, good Master. Déagol, my love, my precious, you came back. The Precious was lost and you found it, and it was lost again and you found it again. We's sorry, my love, we's sorry. Please come back with me. Leave the nasty Hobbit and the nasty place. He can go see Her. She'll like him, she will, yes. He is for Her. You are for me. Déagol, love, we wants it. We wants it. Déagol, we loves you and we need to go love, precious. Go back to the reeds. You give me my Precious and then you will come with me to the reeds and we'll find fish. No nasty elves and big people, with spears and knives. I will take you back safe. I'll find fish and we'll eat them. We wants it. We wants fish and reeds. We wants you, Precious, my Déagol. We wants it.
-- Gollum looked at them. A strange expression passed over his lean hungry face. The gleam faded from his eyes, and they went dim and grey, old and tired. A spasm of pain seemed to twist him, and he turned away, peering back up towards the pass, shaking his head, as if engaged in some interior debate. Then he came back, and slowly putting out a trembling hand, very cautiously he touched Frodo's knee - but almost the touch was a caress. For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought they beheld an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far beyond his time, beyond friends and kin, and the fields and streams of youth, an old starved pitiable thing.
LOTR, The Two Towers, "The Stairs of Cirith Ungol"