Still to be neat, still to be dressed
As if you were going to a feast
Still to be powdered, still perfumed
Lady it is to be presumed Though arts hid causes are not found
All is not sweet, all is not sound
Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simpicity a grace
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art They strike mine eyes but not my heart
By Boy,
in Epicoene (1.1.71-82),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry e. 14, f. 12