Clerimont's Song
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As, you were going to a feast;
Still to be powered, 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.
Ben Johnson 1572-1637
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