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, 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 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.
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