The magic of a face.

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

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.

Loe here the precious dust is layd; Whose purely-temper'd clay was made So fine that it the guest betray'd. Else the soule grew so fast within, It broke the outward shall of sinne And so was hatch'd a cherubin.

Those curious locks so aptly twin'd, Whose every hair a soul doth bind.