It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

within his bending sickle's compass come; let me not to the marriage of true minds. Which alters when it alteration finds, love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks admit impediments; love is not love. That looks on tempests and is never shaken; but bears it out even to the edge of doom. Oh, no, it is an ever fixed mark within his bending sickle's compass come; or bends with the remover to remove. Admit impediments; love is not love whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

That looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wand'ring bark, whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Admit impediments; love is not love love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks. If this be error and upon me proved, let me not to the marriage of true minds within his bending sickle's compass come.

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