How oft when thou my music music playst,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently swayst,
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 fate,
And situation with those dancing chips,
Ore whom their [thy] fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips,
Since saucy Jacks so happy are in this,
Give them their [thy] fingers, me thy lips to kiss.