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 simplicity¹ 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.