Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.

In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.

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

Be noble! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping but never dead, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.

Goodness is achieved not in a vacuum, but in the company of other men, attended by love.

Nos vertus ne sont, le plus souvent, que de vices deguises.