Sonnet no. 128

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.

For commentary, visit Shakespeare’s Sonnets.

Italian Translation
German Translation
Russian Translation
French Translation
Dutch Translation
Ukrainian Translation
Spanish Translation
Portuguese Translation

Sonnets in English
Sonnets in Russian
Sonnets in German
Sonnets in Italian
Sonnets in Spanish
Sonnets in French
Sonnets in Ukrainian
Sonnets in Portuguese
Sonnets in Dutch

Добавить комментарий

Ваш e-mail не будет опубликован. Обязательные поля помечены *