A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. - Alfred Tennyson

In her right hand the lily, in her left
The letter — all her bright hair streaming down — And all the coverlid was cloth of gold
Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white
All but her face, and that clear-featured face
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead,
But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.

Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.