Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Dressed, As You Were Going To A Feast; Still To Be Powdered, 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.