Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, The women pardoned all, except her face.

A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.

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

Oh! could you view the melody Of every grace, And music of her face, You'd drop a tear, Seeing more harmony In her bright eye, Than now you hear.

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

And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.

He had a face like a benediction (blessing).

In her face excuse Came prologue, and apology too prompt.

A face that had a story to tell. How different faces are in this particular! Some of them speak not. They are books in which not a line is written, save perhaps a date.

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.

The magic of a face.

The face the index of a feeling mind.

With faces like dead lovers who died true.

And her face so fair Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

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