Shakespeare's Sonnets: How oft when thou, my music, music play'st

How oft when thou, my music, music play'stUpon that blessèd wood whose motion soundsWith thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'stThe wiry concord that mine ear confounds,Do I envy those jacks that nimble leapTo kiss the tender inward of thy hand,Whil'st 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 stateAnd situation with those dancing chips,O'er whom their fingers walk with gentle gait,Making dead wood more bless't than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them their fingers, me thy lips to kiss.