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Marguerite

SONNET NO. 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 your hand,
Whilst my poor lips-which should that harvest reap,
At the woods boldness by thee blushing stand
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er which 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.

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