| | Sonnet 116 |
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds |
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Admit impediments. Love is not love |
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Which alters when it alteration finds, |
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Or bends with the remover to remove. |
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O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark |
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That looks on tempests and is never shaken; |
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It is the star to every wand'ring bark, |
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Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. |
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Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks |
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Within his bending sickle's compass come: |
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Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, |
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But bears it out even to the edge of doom. |
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If this be error and upon me proved, |
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I never writ, nor no man ever loved. |
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| Sonnet 116 |
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I hope I may never acknowledge any reason why minds that truly love each other shouldn't be joined together. Love isn't really love if it changes when it sees the beloved change or if it disappears when the beloved leaves. Oh no, love is a constant and unchanging light that shines on storms without being shaken; it is the star that guides every wandering boat. And like a star, its value is beyond measure, though its height can be measured. Love is not under time's power, though time has the power to destroy rosy lips and cheeks. Love does not alter with the passage of brief hours and weeks, but lasts until Doomsday. If I'm wrong about this and can be proven wrong, I never wrote, and no man ever loved. |
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