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 reckon’d 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 lov’st me for my name is ‘Will.’
In plain English
If your conscience troubles you about letting me close, tell your blind soul that I am your 'Will'—and will, as your soul knows, belongs in that place. So far I've played the devoted lover; now fulfill my suit.
Will can fill the treasure of your love, and add my will to all the other wills already there. When something has huge capacity, one extra thing among many counts for nothing—so let me pass unnoticed in that number, even though I must be one of your accounts.
Hold me as nothing, if it pleases you to hold me as something sweet. Just make my name your love and keep loving that. Then you'll love me, because my name is Will.
