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-fixティd mark
That
looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the
star to every wand’ring 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.