WHEN my love swears
that she is made of truth |
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I do believe her, though I know she lies, |
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That she might think me some untutord
youth, |
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Unlearned in the worlds false subtleties. |
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Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, |
5 |
Although she knows my days are past the best, |
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Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: |
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On both sides thus is simple truth supprest. |
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But wherefore says she not she is unjust? |
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And wherefore say not I that I am old? |
10 |
O! loves best habit is in seeming trust, |
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And age in love loves not to have years told: |
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Therefore I lie with her, and
she with me, |
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And in our faults by lies we
flatterd be. |
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