Three poems of Ben Jonson

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, 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 makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair is free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all th'adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Come my Celia, let us prove,
We may the sweets of love,
Time will not be ours for ever,
He at lenght our good will sever,
Spend not then his gifts in vaine,
Sunnes that set may rise again,
But if we once loose this light,
'tis with us perpetuall night.
Why should wee deferre our joyes?
Fame and rumour are but toyes.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore household spyes,
Or his easier eares beguile,
Thus removed by our wile?
'tis no sinne loves fruit to steale,
but the sweete theft to reveale,
to be taken, to be seene,
these have crimes accounted been.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And send'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.