let me not to 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 barque, 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.
