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William Shakespeare - Sonnet 128: "How oft when thou, my music, music play`st,..."
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How oft when thou, my music, music play`st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway`st
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 wood`s boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O`er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless`d than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
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