The Sonnets

How oft when thou, my music, music playʼst,

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers when thou gently swayʼst

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,

At the woodʼs boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips,

Oʼer whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blessʼd than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.