It is the starre to every wandring barke,
Whose worths unknowne, although his hight be taken!
Lov's not Times foole, though rosie lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickles compasse come,
Love alters not with his breefe houres and weekes,
But beares it out even to the edge of doome:
  If this be errour and upon me proved,
  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

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