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 tempest and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
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 be proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
-Shakespeare, Sonnet cxvi