O beauteous hand! that dost my heart subdue,
    And in a little space my life confine;
    Hand where their skill and utmost efforts join
    Nature and Heaven, their plastic powers to show! 
    Sweet fingers, seeming pearls of orient hue,
    To my wounds only cruel, fingers fine! 
    Love, who towards me kindness doth design,
    For once permits ye naked to our view. 
    Thou glove most dear, most elegant and white,
    Encasing ivory tinted with the rose;
    More precious covering ne’er met mortal sight. 
    Would I such portion of thy veil had gain’d! 
    O fleeting gifts which fortune’s hand bestows! 
    ’Tis justice to restore what theft alone obtain’d.

    NOTT.

      O beauteous hand! which robb’st me of my heart,
    And holdest all my life in little space;
    Hand! which their utmost effort and best art
    Nature and Heaven alike have join’d to grace;
    O sister pearls of orient hue, ye fine
    And fairy fingers! to my wounds alone
    Cruel and cold, does Love awhile incline
    In my behalf, that naked ye are shown? 
    O glove! most snowy, delicate, and dear,
    Which spotless ivory and fresh roses set,
    Where can on earth a sweeter spoil be met,
    Unless her fair veil thus reward us here? 
    Inconstancy of human things! the theft
    Late won and dearly prized too soon from me is reft!

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVII.

Non pur quell’ una bella ignuda mano.

HE RETURNS THE GLOVE, BEWAILING THE EFFECT OF HER BEAUTY.

      Not of one dear hand only I complain,
    Which hides it, to my loss, again from view,
    But its fair fellow and her soft arms too
    Are prompt my meek and passive heart to pain. 
    Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain,
    Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new,
    That so her high and heavenly part endue,
    No style can equal it, no mind attain. 
    That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes,
    The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and rose
    Contrast each other, whence rich music flows,
    These fill the gazer with a fond surprise,
    The fine head, the bright tresses which defied
    The sun to match them in his noonday pride.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CLXVIII.

Mia ventura ed Amor m’ avean si adorno.

HE REGRETS HAVING RETURNED HER GLOVE.

      Me Love and Fortune then supremely bless’d! 
    Her glove which gold and silken broidery bore! 
    I seem’d to reach of utmost bliss the crest,
    Musing within myself on her who wore. 
    Ne’er on that day I think, of days the best,
    Which made me rich, then beggar’d as before,
    But rage and sorrow fill mine