| 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, | |
| Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries. | |
| Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, | 5 |
| Although I know my years be past the best, | |
| I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue, | |
| Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest. | |
| But wherefore says my love that she is young? | |
| And wherefore say not I that I am old? | 10 |
| O! love’s best habit is a soothing tongue, | |
| And age, in love, loves not to have years told. | |
| Therefore I ’ll lie with love, and love with me, | |
| Since that our faults in love thus smother’d be. |