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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 my 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,

C'’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.

vay'st |

ate

Lips.

Ifthou survive my well-contented day, [cover,

When that churl Death my bones with dust shali

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

| Compare them with the bettering of the time;

And though they be outstripp’d by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

| Exceeded by the height of happier men.

|O then vouchsafe me but this ioving thought ! [age, j‘ Had my friend’s muse grown with this growing

« À dearer birth than this his love had brought,

[To march in ranks of better equipage :

‘But since he died, and poets better prove « Theirs for their style l’Il read, his for his iove.”?