Sonnet Cxxxvi

William Shakespeare

     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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