35. She sways her house, commands her followers, Takes and gives back affairs and their despatch, With a most smooth, discreet, and stable bearing. _Twelfth Night._ 36. Spring hath no blossom fairer than her form, Winter no snow-wreath purer than her mind. The dew-drop trembling to the summer sun Is like her smile; bright, transient, heaven-refined. MRS. PIERSON. 37. She is a lady of confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel where just provocation is given. CHARLES LAMB. 38. Her outward charms are less Than her winning gentleness; With maiden purity of heart, Which, without the aid of art, Does in coldest hearts inspire Love. JAMES ALDRICH. 39. She dwells among us like a star, That from its bower of bliss Looks down, yet gathers not a stain From aught it sees in this. MRS. WELBY. 40. She in pleasant purpose doth abound, And greatly joyeth merry tales to feign. SPENSER. 41. Early and late, at her soul's gate, Sits Chastity in warder wise; No thought unchallenged, small or great, Goes thence into her eyes; Nor may a low, unworthy thought Beyond that virgin warder win, Nor one, whose password is not "ought," May go without, or enter in. J. R. LOWELL. 42. A light, busy foot astir In her small housewifery, the blithest bee That ever wrought in hive. MITFORD. 43. Practised to lisp and hang the head aside, Faint into airs, and languish into pride. POPE. 44. She is ever fair, and never proud, Hath tongue at will, and yet is never loud. _Othello._ 45. I call her richly blest, In the calm meekness of her woman's breast, Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies; And for her household love, which clings Unto all ancient and familiar things, Weaving from each some link for home's dear charities. HEMANS. 46. She's peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty. _Two Gentlemen of Verona._ 47. No simplest duty is forgot; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. J. R. LOWELL. 48. Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprizing what they look on;--and her wit Values itself so highly, that to her All matter else seems weak. _Much Ado About Nothing._