The Re-echo Club: as by Ben Jonson

Still to be cubed, still to be square,
As you were going down a stair;
Still to see lurid pigments sluiced,--
Lady, it is to be deduced,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not square, all is not round.

Give me a cube, give me a line
That makes a whirling maze design;
Robes made of sheet-iron, flowing free,--
Such sweet device more taketh me
Than masterpieces by old Rubes
Which charm not eyes attuned to cubes.