Many years ago in a period commonly know as Next Friday Afternoon, there lived a King who was very Gloomy on Tuesday mornings because he was so Sad thinking about how Unhappy he had been on Monday and how completely Mournful he would be on Wednesday.
Ah, if I were not king, I should lose my temper.
Why me?" she asked, holding on to him. "Because you cared," he whispered. "You cared so much for your people, it broke your heart to see the pack in ruins. You cared so much for your mother, you risked your life for hers. You cared enough to save someone who wanted you dead. And because you walk like a queen.
There was an aura about him (Joe DiMaggio). He walked like no one else walked. He did things so easily. He was immaculate in everything he did. Kings of State wanted to meet him and be with him. He carried himself so well. He could fit in any place in the world.
If I'm going to a fancy event, I try to be princess-like.
Be Royal in your Own Fashion: Act like a King to be treated
I am a courtier grave and serious Who is about to kiss your hand: Try to combine a pose imperious With a demeanour nobly bland.
The look of a king is itself a deed.
Chrestomanci smiled and swept out of the room like a very long procession of one person.
Savor the throne, but don't mind the stool.
Yes, I see that you are behaving like a prince but that doesn't mean you won't behave like a devil at the first opportunity.
Perhaps all a Tsaritsa is is a beautiful cold girl in the snow, looking down at someone wretched, and not yielding.
In a king, modesty would be a sign of weakness.
Yes, but either way, shamed or not, I shall be Queen of England, and this is the last time you will sit in my presence.
Though I be but prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy.
The woman turned and went slowly into the house. As she passed the doors she turned and looked back. Grave and thoughtful was her glance, as she looked on the king with cool pity in here eyes. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings.
I thought of my mother as Queen Christina, cool and sad, eyes trained on some distant horizon. That was where she belonged, in furs and palaces of rare treasures, fireplaces large enough to roast a reindeer, ships of Swedish maple.
Avoiding the appearance of queenly behavior is politically wise. But it does American culture no favors if a first lady tries so hard to be average that she winds up looking common.
