“Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose 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, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. CXVII Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all, Wherein I should your great deserts repay, Forgot upon your dearest love to call,”