Sonnet CXXVIII
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How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, | 1
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds | 2
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st | 3
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, | 4
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap | 5
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, | 6
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, | 7
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! | 8
To be so tickled, they would change their state | 9
And situation with those dancing chips, | 10
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, | 11
Making dead wood more blest than living lips. | 12
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, | 13
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. | 14
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