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Augusta Davies Webster - Tell thee truth, sweet; no
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TELL thee truth, sweet; no.
Truth is cross and sad and cold:
    Lies are pitiful and kind,
Honey-soft as Love`s own tongue:
Let me, love, lie so.
    Lies are like a summer wind,
Wooing flower-buds to unfold
    Lies will last while men are young.
Tell thee truth, love; no.

    Let me, sweet, lie so.
Lies are Hope`s light ministers,
    Footless birds upon the wing:
Truth`s a name for plodding care:
Tell thee truth, sweet; no.
    Truth`s the east wind on the Spring—
`Tis the wind, not Spring-time, errs.
    Lies will last while maids are fair.
Let me lie, love, so.
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