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: 4 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. 1 If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.