That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
8Whose 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,
12But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,