How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, <br />Upon that blessèd 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-128-how-oft-when-thou-my-music-music-play/
