Shakespeare Sonnet 128

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Back 1

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

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Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

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With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st

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The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

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Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

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To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

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Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

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At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

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To be so tickled, they would change their state

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And situation with those dancing chips,

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O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

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Making dead wood more blest than living lips.

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Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

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Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.