Castiglione's The Courtier

"Women are cold," the Magnifico said
Cold frozen chicken
And sometimes clammy like my hand
But only compared to the
Warmth of a man, which could be perfection. But temperate is closer, embodying
Both the hot and cold
Like us, like our hands
Soft, cold, sweaty, clammy
You are melting me
Liquifying me to mingle with you

I can't remember which hands are whose.