Sonnet 128

How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st

Upon that blessèd 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.

You’re music, and when your hands graze an instrument,

Say wood and beauty of a guitar, and start to play,

Pressing and pulling sounds opulent

Out, that love ears away,

I envy the strings, the neck, the mahogany

That slide in your hands.

Or say it’s a keyboard, another lovely melody,

And the keys and your fingers dance.

I would trade places, if you’ll bear the analogy,

With the substance of any of your instruments.

Particularly my lips, or so goes the revery,

Would be happy to make an appearance.

Anyway, keep playing. My thinking is this:

While the music has your hands, I’ll play a kiss.