Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments.
Love is not love Wich 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 îs never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown,
although his height be taken. Love’s not Timo’s fool,
thought rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s
compass come: Love alters not with his breif hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. Of this be error
and upon me proved, I never writ nor no man ever loved.
