  Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast: Still to be poud'red, still perfum'd: Lady, it is to be presum'd, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. That makes simplicitie a grace; Robes loosely flowing, haire as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all th' adulteries of art, That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. |
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