William Shakespeare - Sonnet 128

Lyrics
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 blest than living lips Since saucy jacks so happy are in this Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss
Rate this song
0/5.0 - 0 Ratings
5
0.0% (0)
4
0.0% (0)
3
0.0% (0)
2
0.0% (0)
1
0.0% (0)
Loading comments...
Credits
- Writers
- William Shakespeare