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 ignorant 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,
smiling I credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But where does it say, my love, that she is young?
And where does it say 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 it's our faults in love, thus smother'd be.
sessho420 Community Member 
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