When my love swears that she is made of truth,
 I take her word, though I do know she lies,
 That she might think me some green youth,
 Not taught in how the world's false facts are sly.
 Thus with the vain thought that she thinks me young,
 Though she knows my days are past the best,
 I just take the word from her false-spoke tongue:
 On both sides thus is plain truth all down pressed.
 But why is it she says not she's not just?
 And why is it I say not that I'm old?
 Oh, love's best guise is when we seem to trust,
 And age in love loves not to have years told.
   And so I lie with her and she with me,
   And in our faults by lies we more vain be.

                                -- Will the Bard