Sentipensante
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 even to the edge of doom.
