As you were going to a feast；
Still to be powder'd 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.