| 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 | 5 |
| 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 tickl’d, they would change their state | |
| And situation with those dancing chips, | 10 |
| 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. |