Sunday, October 25, 2015

Sonnet CXXXVI (136)

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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