Shakespeare's Sonnet 128

How oft when thou, my music, music play’st,Upon that blessed wood whose motion soundsWith thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’stThe 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 stateAnd 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.

How often, when you, my source of music, play music on that blessed wooden instrument, making its strings sound in harmony under the gentle movement of your sweet fingers and overwhelming my ears, I envy those little wooden keys that leap nimbly to kiss the tender inside of your hand! Meanwhile, my poor lips, which should be enjoying that reward, stand beside you blushing at the wood's boldness. To receive such touches, they would exchange their condition and position with those dancing bits of wood, over which your fingers walk gently, making dead wood more fortunate than living lips. Since those cheeky keys are so happy with this, give them your fingers, and give me your lips to kiss.