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
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.
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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 suppressed.
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But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say I not that I am old?
O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to hear years told.
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Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
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These fragments I have shored against my ruins. -- T.S. Eliot