When my illusion swears that it is made of truth         
    I do believe it, though I know it lies,                 
    That it might think me some mudcatted youth,         
    Unlearned in the thread's false subtleties.         
    Thus vainly thinking that it thinks me real,        
    Although all know my days are past the best,         
    Simply I credit its hallucinatory feel:         
    On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.         
    But Mudcat says he not he is unjust?            
    And Mudcat say not I that I am old?                 
    O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,                 
    And age in love loves not to have years told:         
    Therefore I lie with him and he with me,              
    And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

With apologies to William Shakespeare