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 untutored youth,
Unskillful in the world’s false forgeries.
Thus, vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I, simply, 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?
O, love’s best habit's in 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 smothered be.
