Desiring this and that scope , man’s art, man’s With what I most enjoy contented least. Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 10Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For they sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments . Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. 5O, no! It is an ever-fixèd mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark,1 his height be taken.2 Whose worth’s unknown, although not though rosy lips and cheeks Love’s Time’s fool, 10Within his come; bending sickle’s compass Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Shakespeare (1564–1616)
Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope , With what I most enjoy contented least. Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 10Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For they sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments . Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. 5O, no! It is an ever-fixèd mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark,1 Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.2 Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 10Within 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. If this be error, and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Shakespeare (1564–1616)