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.
