Sonnet 128 – William Shakespeare
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.
it would not be incorrect to suppose that the
“wood” of which Shakespeare speaks here
is his own and not that of the instrument,
you’ll probably even enjoy the poem more
that way, which is to say for its saucy, not
to mention, unexpected and, ahem,
you might also note the equally raffish
use of the word “jacks”