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 th’ adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.