It is the star to every wand'ring bark, 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. Or bends with the remover to remove. Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

If this be error and upon me proved, that looks on tempests and is never shaken; admit impediments; love is not love. Within his bending sickle's compass come; it is the star to every wand'ring bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Let me not to the marriage of true minds. That looks on tempests and is never shaken; love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks admit impediments; love is not love.

It is the star to every wand'ring bark, 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. Or bends with the remover to remove. Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks I never writ, nor no man ever loved.