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CXVI.
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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