Page 2082 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

136 IT

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 reckoned 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 lovest me, for my name is Will.