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 tempest, and is never shaken;
It is the start to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his
height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.