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

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 prov’d,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

-Shakespeare