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Sonnet 127
Shakespeare's Sonnets Translation Sonnet 128
How oft when thou, my music, music play’st Upon that blessèd 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.
How often when you, who are my music, play music
On that blessed wood instrument, which vibrates
With your sweet fingers, and when you gently move
The harmony of strings that amazes my ears,
I envy those keys that leap nimbly
To kiss the tender inside of your hand,
While my poor lips, which should be collecting the harvest of your kiss,
Stand blushing at the boldness of the wooden keys.
To be tickled like that, my lips would gladly change place
With those dancing wooden blocks,
Over which your fingers walk with gentle steps,
Making dead wood more blessed than living lips.
Since those cheeky upstarts are so happy to be there,
Give them your fingers, but give me your lips to kiss.
