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,
         Unskilful in
               the world's false forgeries.

    Thus vainly thinking
         that she thinks me young,
           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?

    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.