Let me not coin new meaning to words
Or alter their sense for mere badinage:
Broken pediments may add grace to facades
But words void of wit and sense are BeauNash
Playing dandy among a mournful wake.
I have miscalled pediments impediments
And Paul Bremer for Beau Brummel, a rake.
Words are a good man’s trusted implements-
In music chords do allow inversion
But mix up fundament for aliment
another might think it as some perversion,
If in need of vigor take supplement.
But if you are not Dam Malaprop
Treat words and their sense as walk on tight rope.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration 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 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.