Song From The Silent Woman

Still to be neat, still to be dressed,

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfume;

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

Then all the' adulteries of Art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.