Let me not to the marriage of true minds
     Admit impediments. 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 never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
     Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's 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 writ, nor no man ever loved.