I
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.