Sonnet 138

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,

Unlearnèd 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.

When my love swears that he is only faithful,

I trust him, anyway, though certain he lies.

I’d like him to believe I’m still a naïve girl,

Untutored in alibis.

In vain, I let myself seem young,

Though we two know my beauty’s at rest,

And let him easily string me along.

We both have not confessed.

But why doesn’t he just say he’s a lover?

And why don’t I just let my body be old?

When in doubt love likes to play the deceiver,

And aging love doesn’t love its age told.

So I lie with him, and he lies with me,

And our lying gets lost in the flattery.