Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds;
O no, it is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempers and is never shaken;
... Love's not time's fool, though rosy cheeks and lips
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.
- William Shakespeare, Sonnet CXVI
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