Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alterations finds;

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 even 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. 

                                       -Shakespeare, sonnet 116

Sometimes, you grow weary of your own tiresome words. 

So you borrow someone else's.