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CXXXVIII.
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,
Unlearned in the
world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that
she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are
past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking
tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And
wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best
habit is in seeming trust,
And 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 flatter'd be.
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