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 untutored youth,
Unlearned 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. | |
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When my mistress swears that she is faithful
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think I am some inexperienced youth,
Ignorant of all the deceit that exists in the world.
Thus foolishly thinking that I am still young,
Although she knows that my best days are behind me,
Foolishly I give credit to the untruths she tells about me;
So that both of us are supressing the ugly truth.
But why does she not tell me that she is unfaithful?
And why do I not admit that I am old?
O, love's best disguise is the pretence of truth,
And older lovers do not like to have their age pointed out:
That is why I lie to her and she to me,
And the lies we tell each other help us forget our respective faults.