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William Shakespeare, Sonnet cxxxvi

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;
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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;
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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
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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.