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 she is young?
and wherefore say that i am old?
O! loves best habit is soothing tongue,
and age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Thank you for all your generous donations,
i greatly appreciate it && I love you forever
