''What is your fortune, my pretty maid?'' ''My face is my fortune, Sir,'' she said.
A blank helpless sort of face, rather like a rose just before you drench it with D.D.T.
A face is too slight a foundation for happiness.
A good face they say, is a letter of recommendation. O Nature, Nature, why art thou so dishonest, as ever to send men with these false recommendations into the World!
A man finds room in the few square inches of the face for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his history, and his wants.
A man's face as a rule says more, and more interesting things, than his mouth, for it is a compendium of everything his mouth will ever say, in that it is the monogram of all this man's thoughts and aspirations.
A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction.
A strange and somewhat impassive physiognomy is often, perhaps, an advantage to an orator, or leader of any sort, because it helps to fix the eye and fascinate the mind.
After a certain number of years our faces become our biographies. We get to be responsible for our faces.
Alas after a certain age, every man is responsible for his own face.
As a beauty I'm not a great star. Others are handsomer far; but my face — I don't mind it because I'm behind it; it the folks out in front that I jar.
Clowns wear a face that's painted intentionally on them so they appear to be happy or sad. What kind of mask are you wearing today?
Every European visitor to the United States is struck by the comparative rarity of what he would call a face, by the frequency of men and women who look like elderly babies. If he stays in the States for any length of time, he will learn that this cannot be put down to a lack of sensibility — the American feels the joys and sufferings of human life as keenly as anybody else. The only plausible explanation I can find lies in his different attitude to the past. To have a face, in the European sense of the word, it would seem that one must not only enjoy and suffer but also desire to preserve the memory of even the most humiliating and unpleasant experiences of the past.
Every man over forty is responsible for his face.
God had given you one face, and you make yourself another. [Hamlet]
He had a face like a blessing.
Her face was her chaperone.
I am the family face; flesh perishes, I live on, projecting trait and trace through time to times anon, and leaping from place to place over oblivion.
I have eyes like those of a dead pig.
I never forget a face, but in your case I'll make an exception.