THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare (136)

 CXXXVI

    If thy soul check 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 store's 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 lov'st me for my name is 'Will.'