Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,

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.