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 subtleties¹. 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 suppressed： 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.