Page:Shakespeare Collection of Poems.djvu/147

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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.

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