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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.

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