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 proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare