A perfect lady cares for her friends, sharing affections, crying shoulders, and kindness. By morning, she listens; by noon, she speaks; by evening, she loves. A perfect lady never indulges in half-truths or white lies, never bites her tongue or mumbles. She is kind to many, loyal to few, harmful to none. A lady is the paragon of femininity and her friends the essence of harmony.
A perfect lady cares for her stallion, her dreamy caballero holding her heart in his hooves. A perfect stallion cares for his lady, the flower of his dreams and the honeybee of hers. A lady meets her prince under the Canterlot moonlight, in an art museum, at the Grand Galloping Gala. They lay eyes from afar and swoon at first sight; they approach and speak softly, sparking amorous bonfire. They brush lips and blush, crossing stars and sealing fates with fluttering eyelashes, faint smiles. Overjoyed and enamored, he buys her a ring and proposes, and she gifts lifelong vows. He works the upper echelons of the noble sphere; she cares for their beautiful foals, a kind-hearted filly and a soft-spoken colt. She lives for him and he for her, and as the calendar flies by, they share their final rests, hoof-in-hoof and heart-in-heart.
And indeed, a perfect lady’s friends are perfect ladies with perfect stallions. Thus a lady cares for her friends in want of a stallion, side-by-side their stallions, mourning the break-up or passing of their stallions. A lady serves her husband first and friends second, but for none else would she matchmake, listen, advise, even love. She knows romance and friendship, reserving a destined stallion for one, many wonderful mares for the other. Ever cautious, ever quaint, a perfect lady’s friendship survives and thrives.
My name is Rarity, and I am no perfect lady.