ON A GIRDLE
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 dear.
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 riband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.
Edmund Waller.