| |
|
CXXXVI.
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.'
|
|
|
