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 untutored youth, unskillful in the world's false forgeries.Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, 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? O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue, and age, in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore I will lie with love, and love with me, since that our faults in love thus smothered be. Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, that like two spirits do suggest me still, my better angel is a man right fair, my worser spirit a woman colored ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil, tempted my better angel from my side, and would corrupt my saint to be a devil, wooing his purity with her fair pride. And whether that my angel be turned fiend, suspect I may, yet not directly tell, 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. Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, against whom the world could not hold argument, persuade my heart to this false perjury? vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove, thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee, my vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love, thy grace being gained cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath a vapor is, then, thou fair sun, that on this earth both shine, exhale this vapor vow; in thee it is, if broken, then it is no fault of mine. If by me broke, what fool is not so wise, to break an oath, to win a paradise? Sweet Cythera, sitting by a brook, with young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green, did court the lad with many a lovely look, such looks as none could look but beauty's queen. She told him stories to delight his ear, she showed him favors to allure his eye, to win his heart, she touched him here and there, touches so soft still conquer chastity. But whether unripe years did want conceit, or he refused to take her figured proffer, the tender nibbler would not touch the bait, but smile and jest at every gentle offer, then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward, he rose and ran away; ah, fool too forward! If love makes me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed, thought to myself forsworn, to thee I will constant prove, those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.