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,

Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

5

Although I know my years be past the best,

I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,

Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest.

But wherefore says my love that she is young?

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

10

O! love’s best habit is a soothing tongue,

And age, in love, loves not to have years told.

 Therefore I ’ll lie with love, and love with me,

 Since that our faults in love thus smother’d be.

TWO loves I have of comfort and despair,

Which like two spirits do suggest me still;

My better angel is a man, right fair,

My worser spirit a woman, colour’d ill.

To win me soon to hell, my female evil

5

Tempteth my better angel from my side,

And would corrupt a saint to be a devil,

Wooing his purity with her fair pride:

And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend

Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

10

For being both to me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another’s hell.

 The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,

 Till my bad angel fire my good one out.