down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

_Marmion, Canto 5._

Her very soul is in home, and in the discharge of all those quiet
virtues of which home is the centre. Her husband will be to her the
object of all her care, solicitude, and affection. She will see
nothing, but by him, and through him. If he is a man of sense and
virtue, she will sympathize in his sorrows, divert his fatigue, and
share his pleasures. If she becomes the property of a churlish or
negligent husband, she will suit his taste also, for she will not
long survive his unkindness.--_Waverley._

When there can be no confidence betwixt a man and his plighted
wife, it is a sign she has no longer the regard for him that made
their engagement safe and suitable.--_The Heart of Mid-Lothian._

She was by nature perfectly good-humoured, and if her due share of
admiration and homage was duly resigned to her, no one could
possess better temper, or a more friendly disposition; but then,
like all despots, the more power that was voluntarily yielded to
her, the more she desired to extend her sway. Sometimes, even when
all her ambition was gratified, she chose to be a little out of
health, and a little out of spirits.--- _The Talisman._

Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy.

_Marmion, Canto 2._

The noble dame, amid the broil,
Shared the gray seneschal's high toil,
And spoke of danger with a smile;
Cheer'd the young knights, and council sage
Held with the chiefs of riper age.

_The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto 3._

Woman's faith and woman's trust,
Write the characters in dust.

_The Betrothed._

Ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, or Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,
The sportive toil, which, short and light
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow;
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had train'd her pace,--
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew;
E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread