On a Girdle
by Edmund Waller (1606-1687)
That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! And yet there
Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair!
Give me but what this ribband bound,
Take all the rest the Sun goes round.