138

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.

18

Shall I compare thee to a ciderbread?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling rose's head
And rising yeast hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the bread of cider burns
And often is his gold perfection cut;
And every fair from fair in some way turns
By chance, or nature's changing course unshut.
But thy eternal rising shall not fade
Nor lose possession of the fair thou owest
Nor shall Death brag thy fatal slice was made
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can eat and tongue can taste
So long lives this, and in this you are placed.