William Shakespeare

Sonnet CXXXVI

If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,
    Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy ‘Will,’
    And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
    Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
    'Will’ will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
    Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
    In things of great receipt with ease we prove
    Among a number one is reckon’d none:
    Then in the number let me pass untold,
    Though in thy stores’ account I one must be;
    For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
    That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
    Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
    And then thou lovest me, for my name is ‘Will.’
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