SONNET 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 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 supprest.
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 years told.
Therefore, I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
William Shakespeare