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 blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 134: So, Now I Have Confessed That He Is Thine
- Sonnet Cix
- Sonnet 84: Who Is It That Says Most, Which Can Say More
- Sonnet 59: If There Be Nothing New, But That Which Is
- Sonnet 4: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend