To Her Hand, upon Her Giving Him Her Glove

Oh hand! of all hands living
The softest, moistest, whitest:
More skilled than Phoebus on a lute in running,
More than Minerva with a needle cunning,
Than Mercury more wily,
In stealing hearts most slily:
Since thou, dear hand, in theft so much delightest,
Why fall'st thou now a-giving?
Ay me! thy gifts are thefts, and with strange art,
In giving me thy glove, thou steal'st my heart.