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Still to be
neat, still to be dressed,
As you were going to a
feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady,
it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not
found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity
a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such
sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries
of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
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