Prescanned Shakespeare.com
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How oft | when thou,| my mus|ic, mus|ic playst,
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Upon | that bles|sed wood | whose^mo|tion sounds
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With thy / sweet fing|ers when | thou gen|tly
swayst
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The wi|ry con|cord* that | mine^ear | confounds,
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Do I | envy | those^jacks | that nim|ble leap,
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To kiss | the tend|er in|ward of | thy hand,
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Whilst^my | poor* lips | which^should | that
harv|est reap,
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At the / wood's bold|ness by | thee blush|ing
stand.
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To be | so tick|led, they | would change | their
state
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And sit|ua|tion with | those danc|ing chips,
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Ore whom | thy fing|ers walk | with gent|le gait,
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*Making / dead wood | more* blessed | than liv|ing
lips. ??
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Since^sau|cy jacks | so hap|py are | in this,
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Give^them | thy fing|ers, me | thy lips | to kiss.