By Ben Jonson
Still to be neat, still to be dressed,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed;
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a book, give me a face
That makes simplicity 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.
About the poet:
Ben Jonson（1572—1637）English actor as well as playwright. His GREat plays rank second only to Shakespeare’s. Although these remain at the center of his work, he mastered the art of poetry in all its forms.
