Sonnet 128

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,Upon that blessed 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,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 stateAnd 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.
The wood that your fingers are blessingwith tickling kisses? Depressingthat it's not my lips.Else your swaying hips,within lie more lips for caressing.