How often – when you, my joy, make music on those wooden keys whose movement responds to your sweet fingers, and stuns my ears with the harmony of the strings – do I envy those keys that leap nimbly up and down to kiss the tender palms of your hands while my poor lips, that should be doing the kissing, look on, blushing at the boldness of the keys! To be tickled like that my lips would willingly be transformed into wood and change places with those dancing chips over which your fingers walk with gentle steps, making dead wood more blessed than living lips. Since those cheeky keys are so happy doing this give them your fingers and me your lips to kiss.