- 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 bless’d than living lips.
- Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
- Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.