The passionate pilgrim
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
When my love swears that he is made of truth,
I do believe him, though I know he lies,
That he might think me some untutored youth,
Unskillful in the world’s false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that he thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit his false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that he 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’ll 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 does suggest me still;
The truth I shall not know but live in doubt
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
If love makes me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
Never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed
All ignorant that soul that sees you without wonder
Fair is my love but not so fair as fickle
Mild as a dove but neither true nor rusty
Brighter than glass and yet as glass is brittle
Softer than wax and yet as iron, rusty
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace him
None fairer nor none falser to deface him.
Crabbed age and youth cannot live together
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full or care
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short
Youth is nimble, age is lame
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold
Youth is wild and age is tame
Age, I do abhor you; youth, I do adore you;
My love, my love is young
Age, I do defy you
For methinks you stayed too long.