# Newsletters > Shakespeare's Sonnet-a-Day >  Sonnet #128

## Admin

Sonnet #128

CXXVIII.br /br /How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,br /Upon that blessed wood whose motion soundsbr /With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'stbr /The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,br /Do I envy those jacks that nimble leapbr /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 statebr /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.

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