Poem by Ben Jonson

Still to Be Neat

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
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 make 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. 

1. Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke
2. A Hymn to God the Father
3. To Censorious Courtling
4. On Poet-Ape
5. His Supposed Mistress

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