Still to be neat

Still to be neat, still to be drest,

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:

Lady, Lady, it is to be presum'd:

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 is free;

Such sweet neglect more taketh me

Than all th'adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.