The Poetry Corner

The Sonnets CXXVIII - How oft when thou, my music, music playst

By William Shakespeare

How oft when thou, my music, music playst, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently swayst 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 woods boldness by thee blushing stand! To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, Oer whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blessd than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.