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.
-
William
Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
