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 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 bless’d than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
In plain English
When you play music on the keyboard, your fingers moving so gracefully across the keys, I find myself jealous of the wooden jacks—those little mechanisms inside that leap up to meet your touch. They get to feel your fingers; I'm left standing by, my lips uselessly aching to do what those mechanical parts do so easily.
Your fingers walking across those dead wooden jacks make them seem blessed in a way living lips never could be. The jacks are lucky enough to be tickled by your touch, and they'd trade anything to keep that privilege. I'm asking you directly: let those mechanical pieces have your fingers—just give your lips to me instead.
