So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love’s face
May still seem love to me, though alter’d new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many’s looks, the false heart’s history
Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange.
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate’er thy thoughts, or thy heart’s workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
In plain English
I'll go on believing you're faithful, like a husband who doesn't know his wife is unfaithful. Your face will keep looking loving to me, even if you've changed—because your eyes are kind and your heart is elsewhere, but I can't read that betrayal in your expression.
Most people's faces expose their dishonesty through scowls and wrinkles. But nature gave you a face that always looks sweet and loving, no matter what you're actually feeling or plotting. Your appearance is a perfect mask.
Your beauty is becoming dangerous—like the apple Eve offered in the garden. If your inner self doesn't match that gorgeous exterior, you're offering poison wrapped in something that looks like salvation.
