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 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 meThan all th' adulteries of art:They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
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