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 wondering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, through rosy lips and cheeks
Within the bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not within 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, not no man ever loved.