By by Ben Johnson
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 the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes but not my heart.
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My Thursday was just as uneventful as my Wednesday. It was warmer, so I took a longer walk in the park where the leaves are starting to change, but otherwise it was chores and stuff, though I got to have dinner with Paul whose company event ended earlier than the day before.
We started watching the Orioles-Yankees game, which was going terribly, so instead we watched Thursday Night Football which was fine because I couldn't bring myself to root against Houston this month. From Boonesborough Days, the rehabilitated birds of Raptors Up Close:
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