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 suppressed:
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.
In plain English
When she swears she's honest, I pretend to believe her—even though I know she's lying. I do this so she'll think I'm some naive kid who doesn't yet understand how the world works. We both play along: she acts like she thinks I'm young, I act like I believe her words, even though we both know better.
The real question is: why doesn't she just admit she's unfaithful? And why don't I just say I'm aging? The answer is that love survives on the appearance of trust, and neither of us wants to name what's actually happening—age, lies, betrayal.
So we lie together, literally and figuratively. Our deceptions prop each other up. We stay comfortable in mutual flattery rather than face the truth.
