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 the adulteries of art; 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.