Harvest

Sonnets, [128]. “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.”