Cheek . . . Flushing white and mellow'd red; Gradual tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose.

The magic of a face.

There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow. There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.

It is the common wonder of all men, how among so many millions of faces there should be none alike.

With faces like dead lovers who died true.

You have your face bare; I am all face. [Fr., Vous avez bien la face desouverte; moi je suis tout face.]