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.