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CXXVIII.
How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon
that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet
fingers, when thou gently sway'st
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 wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be
so tickled, they would change their state
And
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.
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