So on at 116 by William Shakespeare. Let me not to the marriage of true minds and mitten pediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove. Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the start of every wandering bark whose worth unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not timespour, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending cycles compass come. Love alters not with his brief hours and leaks, but bears it out, even to the edge of the dew. If this be error and upon me proved, I never read, renown man ever loved.