How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st...
Sonnet 128How 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 blest than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. Buy and Download...Click HERE
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You keep
tinkering and fingering that harpsichord, whose keys are only too eager to leap
to touch your fingers and make music which soothes my hearing. It leaves me
standing here inflamed at the cheekiness of the instrument’s wood, to be so
bold with you.
As they’re happy kissing your fingers, you can give me your lips instead.
As they’re happy kissing your fingers, you can give me your lips instead.