Admit impediments. Love is not love,
which alters when alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no, its an ever fixed mark that looks on tempest and is never shaken.
It’s the star to every wondering bark,
Who’s worth unknown, although his height be taken.
Love is not time’s fool, through rosy lips and cheeks.
Within his bending sickle’s compas come
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out, even to the edge of doom.
If this be an error and upon me proved
I never writ nor no man ever loved.
Sonnet 116, W. Shakespeare