- When my love swears that she is made of truth,
- I do believe her though I know she lies,
- That she might think me some untutor’d youth,
- Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.
- Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
- Although she knows my days are past the best,
- Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
- On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
- But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
- And wherefore say not I that I am old?
- O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
- And age in love, loves not to have years told:
- Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
- And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be.