This page has been validated.
135
THE
PASSIONATE
PILGRIME.
WHen my Love swears that she is made of truth,
I do beleeve her (though I know she lies)
That she might thinke me some untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the worlds false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinkes me young,
Although I know my yeares be past the best:
I smiling, credite her false speaking toung,
Outfacing faults in Love, with loves ill rest.
But wherefore sayes my Love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I, that I am old?
O, Loves best habite is a soothing toung,
And Age (in Love) loves not to have yeares told.
Therefore Ile lye with Love, and Love with me,
Since that our faults in Love thus smother'd be.
Two
