text: 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.