Clerimont’s Song
Ben Jonson
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 losely flowing, hair as free; Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all th’ adulteries of art. They strike mine eyes but not my heart.
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