When My Love Swears
that She Is Made of Truth
my love swears that she is made of truth,
do believe her though I know she lies,
she might think me some untutored youth,
in the world's false subtleties.
vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
she knows my days are past the best,
I credit her false-speaking tongue:
both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
wherefore says she not she is unjust?
wherefore say not I that I am old?
love's best habit is in seeming trust,
age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.