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 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. Όταν η αγάπη μου ορκίζεται πως είναι καμωμένη από αλήθεια, Εγώ την πιστεύω, κι ας ξέρω ότι λέει ψέματα, ότι μπορεί να σκέφτεται πως είμαι ένας νέος ανυποψίαστος, αμάθητος στου κόσμου τις απατηλές λεπτότητες. Μάταια εγώ νομίζοντας πως νέο με νομίζει, Ενώ ξέρει καλά πως οι μέρες μου έχουν περάσει, τη γλώσσα της που λέει ψέματα απλώς πιστεύω.