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.
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