When my love swears that she is made of lies
I don't believe her, though she speaks the truth,
As if she tried on honesty for size
And I were some naïve, untutored youth.
Thus vainly thinking I might pass as young
Although I know my years are past the best
I doubt the one truth uttered by her tongue
On both sides, then, truth finds itself distressed.
But wherefore says my love she is unjust
And wherefore will not I believe her so?
O, love's best habit is in unearned trust
And age in love loves not to let trust go.
Therefore she tells the truth, not lies to me
But in that truth I will not flattered be.
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