When my love swears that she is made of truthI do believe her, though I know she lies,That she might think me some untutored youth,Unlearnèd 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 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 flattered be.
William Shakespeare
