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.