I.
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 that she is young? And wherefore say not
I 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 that our faults in love thus smother\'d be.