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<p style="color:#333333;font-weight:normal;font-size:16px;line-height:30px;font-family:Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;hyphens:auto;text-align:justify;" data-flag="normal">SONNET 128<br>How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,<br>Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds<br>With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st<br>The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,<br>Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap<br>To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,<br>Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,<br>At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!<br>To be so tickled, they would change their state<br>And situation with those dancing chips,<br>O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,<br>Making dead wood more blest than living lips.<br> Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,<br> Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.<br><br></p>