No padlock, bolts, or bars can secure a maiden so well as her own reserve.
The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
A child no more; a maiden now; a graceful maiden with a gentle brow, and cheek tinged lightly, and a dovelike eye; and all hearts bless her, as she passes by.
She had grown in her unstained seclusion, bright and pure as a first opening lilac when it spreads its clear leaves to the sweetest dawn of May.
Let the words of a virgin, though in a good cause, and to as good purpose, be neither violent, many, nor first, nor last.—It is less shame for her to be lost in a blushing silence, than to be found in a bold eloquence.
A loving maiden grows unconsciously more bold.
A maiden never bold; of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion blushed at herself.
The honor of a maid is her name, and no legacy is so rich as honesty.
Nature has thrown a veil of modest beauty over maidenhood and moss roses.