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Let me not to the mariage 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 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 ev'n to the edge of doom:--
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
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