STILL to be neat, still to be drest, 
As you were going to a feast; 
Still to be powder'd, 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.