Sonnet 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 th