| 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, | 5 |
| Although she knows my days are past the best, | |
| Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: | |
| On both sides thus is simple truth supprest. | |
| But wherefore says she not she is unjust? | |
| And wherefore say not I that I am old? | 10 |
| 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. |