william shakespeare - sonnet 128 - richard mitchley lyrics
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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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