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
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and
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 upon me proved,
I never writ, nor man ever loved.
- William Shakespeare
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