Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediment. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is not shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Loves not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never write nor no man ever loved.
