Wednesday, February 18, 2009

The Sonnets of William Shakespeare

CXXXVIII.

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,
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 suppress`d.
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 flatter`d be.

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