Shakespeare wishes he was a piano key so the dark lady could play him elegantly with her fingers. Weird? Sonnet 128How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,Upon that blessed wood whose motion soundsWith thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'stThe 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 stateAnd 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.

Ver todos los episodios