Hands of Gold George R. R. Martin

He rode through the streets of the city,
Down from his hill on high,
O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,
he rode to a woman’s sigh.

For she was his secret treasure,
she was his shame and his bliss.
And a chain and a keep are nothing,
compared to a woman’s kiss.

For hands of gold are always cold
But a woman’s hands are warm