The Bookshelf

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-suite, 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 lov'st me, -- for my name is Will.