our faults

When my love swears that she is made of truthI 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 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.