How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, <br /> Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds <br /> With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st <br /> The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, <br /> Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap <br /> To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, <br /> Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, <br /> At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! <br /> To be so tickled, they would change their state <br /> And situation with those dancing chips, <br /> O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, <br /> Making dead wood more blest than living lips. <br /> Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, <br /> Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-cxxviii/
