How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, br Upon that blessèd wood whose motion sounds br With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st br The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, br Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap br To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, br Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, br At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! br To be so tickled, they would change their state br And situation with those dancing chips br O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, br Making dead wood more blest than living lips. br Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, br Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.